


We Endure

by charll



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dalish Origin, F/M, Gen, Romance, Undergoing edits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charll/pseuds/charll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Tamlen presumed dead and the darkspawn taint coursing through her, Mahariel's conscription to the Grey Wardens has left her with only one goal; survive.</p><p>**canon compliant up to certain points. Also undergoing edits, so check back if you're interested</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Warden's name is Thera, though throughout most of this story I will be referring to her simply as "Mahariel" and I also limit the times I deeply describe her features just because I know we all have our own canon. so idk if you want to envision your own Warden that's cool. Also the rating and tags may change, I'll update them accordingly.

Mahariel knew that the Keeper and Ashalle meant the best for her in their actions, she did. She'd just thought, the Creators must have a sick sense of humor. Mahariel felt the rays from the setting sun at her back as her eyes burned with tears yet to fall. Her head was swimming and she felt as if a needle was pinching the spot right above her stomach; Despair.

 

The men stumbling into her and Tamlen's sight on the edge of the encampment was the beginning of the end, she only had yet to see it. Tamlen's bright, toothy grin shining on at the mention of treasure and adventure had blinded her to the perils of the unknown. She would spend the rest of her days blaming herself and those filthy men in the forest for what happened to Tamlen, and subsequently what happened to her.

 

She had been anything but accepting when it came to joining the Grey Wardens, but she tried not to make such a fuss about it where her clan could see.  She'd argued with the keeper and the human outsider. The clan was her home. She didn't know how many had overheard, but in the end she was conscripted against her will. After that she supposed there was nothing that could be done and she would try to leave with this Duncan and a semblance of her remaining dignity in tact. She would not shame her family so much, as uncomfortable and unfortunate the situation was.

 

Ashalle, her guardian, had decided it was best not to tell Mahariel of her parents. Perhaps she still would not have if Mahariel hadn't pressed her so. In the end, she'd learned the truth. In her bitterness, she'd felt justified in killing those humans in the forest with Tamlen, turning her mother's necklace in her hand over and over as she remembered.

 

 

Mahariel knew not what to think. The pendant was beautiful; a design of interlocking vines dancing in silver and shining brightly in her hand. It was a keepsake from her mother, the only one she had and would likely ever have. She'd never dwelled on it before,  her lack of a mother and father. In her clan they all cared for each other, they were all family. But now it hurt when she thought of them,  tried to picture their faces. 

 

Dying from grief or wandering off into the mist, both had made her heart ache with sadness, her own style of mourning. Now she had her own death sentence and was made to leave herself. Would anyone's heart ache for her as she stepped into the dark, she wondered.  But she was leaving now. They were making her leave.

 

Marethari and the Warden were saving her life, they'd say. But what is a life without your kin. Marethari lamented sending one of their daughters away and into the unknown. Resentfully, Mahariel thought it was not enough.

 

Perhaps, she thought, she was fortunate that everyone knew she had the taint and therefore must leave. Her head had been swimming all day with anxious thoughts regarding words left unsaid by her people. Part of her was ready for Duncan to take her away. She quickly dispelled that notion when she looked back at Fenarel standing alone and looking out in the direction of the forest. They'd both left him now, her and Tamlen. She would pray to Mythal with all her might that he would remain whole.

 

"It is a long journey, I am afraid we must be on our way." She could tell he was trying to stay as polite as possible while still insisting they leave. This was a man that meted out every word, carefully calculated, as not to seem too soft but also not abrasive and unapproachable. Mahariel chose to tread lightly and not test him too much until they reached their destination. Her life was in his hands until she received the cure for the darkspawn taint.

 

"Let me say goodbyes at least," she shifted her weight slightly and crossed her arms, asking with a pained, yet forceful voice. Her clan was moving on after she left. It was very likely she would never see many of her kinsmen again. He had to understand this, she thought outweak desperation. 

 

"Of course, I will wait until you are finished." The Dalish woman briskly walked past Duncan without a word, head down. She had no time to waste, heading towards her and Ashalle's shared aravel to gather her things. The keeper had given her a ring, glyphs of protection engraved on the inside, as a parting gift. Perhaps it would save her in the times to come. She brought her hand up to the charm on her neck in an absent-minded fashion, thumbing and turning it loosely in between her fingers as she had done before. It seemed to put her mind at ease as she collected up a small pack of possessions. 

 

She would not see Tamlen's face as she made her way through the clan procession, and it pained her to think about as it drew near. 

 

* * *

 

  

The journey from the Dalish camp to Ostagar was brutal, to say the least. It took six days in total with five nights of camping. The first two nights at camp were not terrible, as the two hadn't yet left the forested terrain of eastern Thedas. The trees offered a lush canopy of greenery to block any rain that may have fallen on them at night, or any sweltering heat during the day. Mahariel was among the clan’s most promising young hunters, having dedicated herself to the life as an apprentice early, there were not many alive in the clan currently that could best her on one of her good days. 

 

She offered to go out and procure the raw game for their meals, somehow promising to Duncan not to stray too far. The elf would appear with an assortment of berries and a freshly killed rabbit on her belt to help Duncan prepare for dinner. She would tie whatever was left of her hair back into a short ponytail, remove her leather gauntlets, to join him at the fire and begin skinning the animal in silence.

 

Conversation was light to nonexistent, where there was any to be had. But that was not unexpected. She was still upset at leaving, forgetting easily that this is what must be done in order to survive. Mahariel took it as a personal affront, a plan for the intruder to take another one of the people away from their home. 

 

He passed her a bowl of meager stew as she was forced out of her agitated train of thought, almost dropping the hot thing in her lap. Rescuing her composure, she offered a small nod of thanks and shamefully began eating, berating herself mentally for not thanking him outright. Her inborn prejudices were rooted deep indeed. He did not fault her for it, and for that she supposed she was grateful. Most humans would take great pleasure in reminding an elf of their place. Or perhaps that was her own perception. She was Dalish after all. In the end she didn't much care. She was grateful for the silence bestowed upon their journey none the less.

 

"Is there a name I may call you by?" Duncan had broken the comfort of silence with his question, something the elf had not expected. _He must know my name, surely_ , she thought.

 

"I am sure Keeper Marethari must have told you about me. If you were to take me from my kin, you must at least know as much as my name,” the dig was deep as she continued to eat, looking anywhere but at the warden.

 

"She and I believed it best that I become acquainted with you myself. She could have told me countless things about you, though Keeper Marethari is not going to be a fellow Grey Warden. " His question resonated more than she was willing to admit, more than he probably intended, leaving her in a short bout of confusion.

 

"That is a fair point, Warden," she supposed she could forgo the title of 'shem' for now. "Thera, but Mahariel will do if you must."

 

"It is a pleasure, Mahariel." He extended a small, courteous nod in her direction.

 

"I-" she stopped herself from saying something foolish and brash, and argumentative, and possibly incoherent." -likewise, Duncan.” 

 

* * *

 

Camp fell silent under a blanket of stars, obscured only by forest. The only noise besides the ambient chirp of crickets came from the occasional crackle of the campfire and the sound of their own light snores.

 

As of late, she'd see and hear strange, clouded things in her dreams. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember when they started. She would hear whispersfollowing her as she walked, shrouded in mist. She would almost see figures forming in the distance, and she'd feel an unnatural pull that felt alluring and safe. The elf would wake in a cold sweat, the camp still in its ethereal calmness. When it happened for a second and then a third night she awoke to Duncan standing over her with an almost concerned look on his features, brow strained and lips moving, much like how she saw him the day she woke to her new life.

 

"Are you all right? You were thrashing in your sleep."

 

"My dream was just-" The elf put a weary hand to her sweat-drenched brow, small strands of light hair sticking to the side of her face, not exactly knowing whether she was trying to remember or forget, "very strange."

 

The look on Duncan's face was enough to convince her he had an inkling of genuine care reserved for his new charge. His default state of knit brow had abated for that singular moment, instead settling for teeth absent-mindedly taking small bites out of his bottom lip.Before she knew it Duncan had begun packing up camp, his actions silently implying that the elf follow in his actions. There was no mistaking it, she had thought, her dream was, unfortunately,important enough to work the warden into a state of small frenzy. It was time to go.

 

"I apologize but we must continue, the other recruits are waiting for us.”

 

Mahariel could only nod in agreement, for she was smart enough to know she was at the mercy of her traveling companion. To protest could mean a quicker death than her tainted blood surely promised. Her limbs ached though, and her canteen was nearing empty. They had more land to trek and it may have been the worst possible time to make haste throughsouthern Thedas.

 

Mahariel worked one weary foot in front of the other, leather boot connecting shakily with mossy rock. They had left the relative safety of the forested southron hills her clan had known, and began the creeping incline of the mountainous grey warden keep of Ostagar. Duncan wore so much armor. She had wondered how the man could lead her through mountain trails and forest bush, or even fight ferociously for that matter. But the man wielded his long sword and dagger with a stunning combination of grace and intention.

 

"Be ready, we have left the safety of the lowlands. From here on out I cannot promise we will not run into darkspawn."

 

"Mind yourself, I am capable enough," she had to fight to keep the snap of venom back. She knew his intention were pure and yet she still took offense.

 

"I was not doubting your abilities, only reassuring that one of my promising recruits remains intact to fight countless other battles."

 

She stammered over herself in shame. “I suppose I was being hasty." she paused, “Thank you.” 

 

* * *

 

 

 

If the elf had to use one word to describe Ostagar it would be cold. Not temperature wise, as there were braziers lit that had been built as a feature of the ruin when it was in its prime, and there were campfires strewn about the camp, enough to keep the entire place a very comfortable temperature.

 

It was cold in that the place seemed dreadfully lonesome. The towering arches and pillars of white loomed above Mahariel, and where that would make usually make a person very safe and secure, it made her feel enclosed and caged in a mausoleum of towering stone.

 

Upon arriving they had been immediately approached by what Mahariel could only describe as a shimmering golden mass, the very definition of indulgence and excess, and its envoy. She eyed him with interest as he spoke to Duncan, and herself, with an informal and mirthful familiarity. This was the human King Cailan. 

 

"What is this," Duncan received the golden King immediately, gaining a hearty clap on the back in response, "I wasn't expecting a royal welcome."

 

The man laughed in response, playfully goading him on, "I was beginning to think you'd miss all the fun." 

 

"Not if I could help it, your Majesty," Duncan admitted, the young King had indeed startled him.

 

"Aha, Then I will have the Mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all." Mahariel was finding it hard to believe this was their celebrated leader, a glory-seeking and battle hungry child. Maybe she could believe it, maybe it was fitting indeed for a shemlen lord.  

 

"I take it this is your promising new recruit," he had asked with interest. Cailan was enamored with the Grey Wardens and their order. He saw such heroism in their plight and in their sense of duty and honor.

 

"I see that you are _Dalish_."

 

"I see that you have _eyes_." Duncan watched Cailan’s guardsmen nearly leap out of their breastplates at the elf’s boldness. 

 

He laughed, "Oh you are a lively one." She felt uncomfortable under his gaze, "I hear your people possess remarkable skill and honor."

 

"Oh, I notice you have ears as well." She could feel Duncan's gaze on the back of her skull. She knew she was pushing it, but this human lord meant nothing to her.

 

"Well I assure you,my lady, you are quite welcome here. I am sure you will do your people proud fighting among the Grey Warden ranks." Mahariel held her tongue this time, not daring to look in Duncan's direction. Perhaps she had been too bold, she'd thought. This human ruled over the land she and her people dwelled still, unfortunately. 

 

With parting words to Duncan and herself, the King and his entourage had left them on the outlying bridge to the keep. Duncan had spoken briefly to her regarding the absolute nonchalance the King uttered when speaking of the Blight. Duncan knew he was wrong, though to fight the King of Ferelden on such matters would not end well for any man, not even a Grey Warden. She still found it hard to believe Cailan was the man she would be fighting under, trying very hard to reconcile with it. As Duncan began informing her of what made up camp, she thought it best to keep her judgements to herself for the time being. Eventually she was left to her own devices to explore as she wished and to meet the other recruits.

 

Right away a guard spotted her, waving her down. It took a moment for her to realize he was waving to her, as she quickly spun her torso in either direction to check if there was a person behind her. 

 

_That was embarrassing_ , she realized immediately. It seemed she was never to have a peaceful moment to herself. 

 

She stepped forward, one step leading into the next across the massive bridge structure until she met the other end, placing herself in front of a stocky soldier in medium armor manning a large gateway.

 

"You must be the new Gray Warden Duncan brought," the guard spoke casually. His nonchalance annoyed the elf almost immediately. She was tired and not in the mood for trivialities.

 

"You sure I'm not one of the servants?" She replied dryly, crossing her arms and shifting her weight.

 

"I meant no offense miss. I only meant to welcome you to the keep and maybe tell you about the area," he stammered, trying to recover. She bristled at her thought of the human educating her. She only wished to be cured of her sickness and find a way to return home. This was all starting to take a frustrating toll on her patience.

 

"This is where other Grey Warden's are meeting to stop the Blight. We will fight and probably die for some shemlen King. That seems to be enough."

 

"As you like," the guard nodded and she briskly left his presence, entering the camp. Immediately she became overwhelmed with a soft presence whisping through her. There was magic being used nearby, a lot of it in fact. It was easy enough to follow and find; a small encampment of mage weaving and casting simultaneously. As she stepped closer to them, drawn in by the mystic pull of their spell work, two large guards stepped in front of her with large scowls on their faces.

 

"The mages must not be disturbed. They are in the fade." Mahariel, still curious, tried poking her head around one of the guards to get another peak. One of the burly guards was bold enough to forcefully place an armored hand on her leather clad shoulder and shove her back a few paces causing her to stagger. They quite obviously did not want her lingering and we're not against using force. She walked away fast and embarrassed, giving a dirty sneer in their direction, and not noticing the grey haired mage leaning against a nearby post watching the entire encounter with a strange hint of a smile. 

 

Mahariel moved quickly passed the mages. She'd only really known one mage very well at all, Merrill, the keeper's first. She'd be keeper one day, Mahariel knew she could, and would, live up to that expectation. Mahariel, not knowing many mages outside the clan, also had little experience with magic. The cave that housed that damnable mirror was rife with magic, she knew. Walking corpses, cursed artifacts, giant flesh eating beasts, were all signs she now equated with magic, things she now harbored deep loathing for.

 

Making her way through camp, the elf noted two large tents, equidistant from each other, and with their own guard. She remembered seeing one of the guards with King Cailan on the other side of camp only moments ago, but she did not recognize the other. Approaching warily, she bid welcome to the stern looking armored man she did not recall.

 

"This is the tent of Teyrn Loghain. State your business." The warmth present in the King and his guardsmen was obviously lacking in this Teyrn Loghain fellow and his men. Although she did not enjoy shemlen company, she could at least appreciate ones that had manners.

 

"And who exactly is Teyrn Loghain?" She asked, trying to not sound exasperated, she could almost predict the guard's double-take.

 

"You don't know of Teyrn Loghain? The famed hero of River Dane? A commoner so dear to King Maric he was made a Teyrn?"

 

"I don't even know what a Teyrn is." He looked absolutely scandalized upon hearing her words.

 

"He's basically royalty himself, you should show him respect," he insisted. Mahariel had to fight the urge to shove an arrow through his face as she grit her teeth. It was her own fault for initiating the conversation.

 

“As you can plainly see Ser, I am one of the savage Dalish. I am surely unworthy to be in such a man’s presence,” she said in a slightly mocking tone, hoping the guard was too blind with pride to notice. “Please excuse my ignorance. I know no better.” She feigned an embarrassed cry as the man seemed to relax. She wanted nothing more than to leave. By his reaction she deemed it safe to leave and continue wandering the encampment.

 

She wanted to eat something and have a moment of rest. She would talk to no one else until she had found something to eat. Near the makeshift barracks was a large campfire, peppered with a few sitting logs and a large, bubbling pot. Before she knew it, her feet were already carrying her forward. From the scent she could tell it was some form of meat stew boiling on the fire. She'd overheard someone, the blacksmith maybe, say it was lamb. Human cooked food was so strange and tasteless, she had done tried it a few times, out of curiosity with Fenarel and Tamlen. 

 

They often had to drive out small groups of humans from the edges of the Dalish encampments. From time to time they would leave the pot where it was, food served. It was always some form of bland, overcooked meat. Humans had no idea how to add flavor. But regardless, her stomach would be full. 

 

She had eaten slightly away from the fire and away from the other soldiers, wardens, and mages, not that there were many eating at that time. A few men looked at her with curiosity, whether it was due to her being an elf or something as foolish as having her midriff exposed in such weather, she could not tell. She was informed it was uncommon for women to he wardens so she expected a few people gawking. 

 

_But there are female warriors_ , she protested silently, _this surely was no different._

 

She didn't want to get up and move after finishing what she could of her mysterious Ferelden meat stew. Thought she recalled Duncan suggesting she explore camp and find the the other warden recruits, as well as the young Warden they would be serving with. He'd never told her what they looked like, she mused.

 

_Sly shem._ Mahariel grumbled to herself and began looking around lazily.

 

She'd met nearly everyone in camp by the time she met Ser Jory, a very tall human man from Highever, with waxy, sallow skin. He spoke of glory and honor and his wife who was with child. Other than boring Mahariel to death, she might have thought whoever recruited him had played a cruel trick. Even she knew this was a life bestowed upon people who had nothing else to lose. He loomed over her, and in her mind’s eye she pictured him as a massive walking corpse. She didn’t ask him many questions at all as he went on his own tangents about being hand selected from a tournament in Redcliffe. Though his privilege of choice grated on her greatly, she knew he was to be one of her future companions.Perhaps, she thought, in exchange for holding her tongue now, she could avoid his company in the future.

 

Her face softened after the thought as he continued. He didn't asking her why she was there and she didn't bother telling him. As the one sided conversation came to a close, the archer overheard a higher pitched, smooth talking man, trying desperately to garner the affection from an experienced looking female warrior who did not at all look very happy to be engaged in 'conversation' with the man. She held in small, satisfied laugh when he was readily rebuffed by the woman. Though he didn't at all act as if his pride had been damaged through the outcome, and instead of his confidence crumbling, was built up. He let out a laugh himself as she walked off with a grimace and he began a small conversation with the portly blacksmith who had actually addressed her as a servant earlier in the day. Against her better judgment, she approached him.

 

"Well, you're not at all what I expected," he said with a lilt of surprise as his eyes quickly roved over her lightly muscled body. Now she knew why the other warrior was so uncomfortable, and yet she was standing there being judged. He was particularly average for a human male, on the slimmer side, with dark hair, a stubbled jaw, and beady eyes she could not ignore.

 

"Not expecting an elf or a woman, _human,_ ” she said with a scowl, trying not to let him know how perturbed she was under his gaze.

 

"Take your pick," he said. "Point is, you're not it. But I guess it doesn't matter now. We're to be brothers in arms - er, well you know. Name's Daveth," he extended his hand as an offering of peace, expecting to receive hers.

 

"Thera," she uncrossed her arms and took Daveth's hand in a firm shake, which calmed her nerves about her new comrades slightly more than Jory's sickly looking pallor, "but you can call me Mahariel."

 

"Alright then Mahariel, enough of these pleasantries, as nice as they are," he laughed. "I'm sure the Junior Grey Warden is around here somewhere. Duncan must have told you we're to meet up with him first." She didn't remember Duncan mentioning the junior warden, but maybe her hunger was winning out when he was told her earlier that day. She didn't like Daveth telling her what to do, but it didn't look like Daveth or Ser Jory were making any efforts in moving so she supposed the duty would fall to her.

 

Though her stomach was full, she had almost had enough of talking to human soldiers with problems she had no interest in, and her feet were still sore from the day’s travel with Duncan. Usually she would have no problem with a long day’s travel, she was a capable Dalish hunter after all. But the rocky mountain passes and the duress of a time constraint had added to her stresses and strains. 

 

“What is it now? Haven’t the Warden’s asked enough of the Circle of Magi?” She took special care to tread lightly and not disturb the scene in front of her, not that she thought the two men took any notice. There stood a blond human, clad in lightly worn scale armor. If she had to guess, he looked not much younger than herself, though she knew not much about how fast or slow the human aging process worked. He drank in the ever growing frustration seeping off the mage at every retort, simply responding as politely as he could muster. It was driving him absolutely mad and was quite a show, she had to admit. 

 

“I simply meant to deliver a message from the Revered Mother, Ser Mage. She desires your presence,” sounding sheepish and not at all convincing to the mage, nor to the eavesdropping elf.

 

“What the Revered Mother _‘desires’_ is of no concern to me - I am helping the Grey Wardens at the King’s request!” 

 

“Oh! Should I have asked her to write a note?” Thera had to bite the back of her hand not to make a sound.

 

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner,” The mage was quickly turning the same shade of red as his robes.

 

“Yes, I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message.” That had been the final straw as the mage threw the warrior a few admonishments and turned to leave, shoving past Mahariel and alerting him of her presence. She looked over her shoulder and back at the retreating mage as he huffed away, hoping she wouldn’t see the unpleasant man again. 

 

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” She turned back to face the man who still stood before her, a little embarrassed to have stayed for that entire altercation. It truly was none of her business. 

 

“Nonsense! He was leaving, just very, very slowly, and _dramatically_. You know,” he shrugged, “mages.” 

 

“You’re not a,” he began to pantomime with his fingers casting a spell, which only resulted in the elf stifling a snort of laughter. Not only was that assumption absolutely ridiculous, his rendition of what mages acted like was just so, hilariously childlike. 

 

“Do you see a staff strapped to my back?” She responded with more agitation than she initially meant to. 

 

“Well I’m sorry, you can never be too careful! These mages can sneak up on you,” he remarked sarcastically. “You must be Duncan’s newest recruit. I should have realized right away, I apologize.” child-like mirth replaced with a soft and welcoming cadence. Everyone seemed to know right away that she was this new recruit, and that was something she didn’t necessarily enjoy. It was annoying at best and dangerous at worst. She stepped in cautiously to grasp his outstretched hand. He was broad shouldered, with a strong jaw and stubbled chin, and a slightly unkempt mess of blond hair. His eyes were welcoming and sincere, unlike the two men she’d met in camp earlier. 

 

“I am Alistair, Junior Warden. I am here to help you prepare for your Joining.” She took in the first half of his introduction but was confused at his mention of this ‘joining.’ Willing to put her curiosity on hold for the moment, she extended the same pleasantries, albeit a bit aprehensively.

 

“Mahariel, of clan Sabrae.” 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Attaining three vials of darkspawn blood shouldn’t have been this hard, but already Mahariel was getting tired of shooting arrows at the seemingly endless horde. Of course, she mused, we have to run the Grey Warden's other errands as well. She intended to give the rest of her party cover fire, but there were so many darkspawn in the Korcari Wilds that she became occupied in merely staying alive herself.

 

Once she drew another arrow from her quiver to join the fray and take some of the heat off of her comrades, a stout, gnarled genlock rogue would stealthily decloak in front of her to engage in close combat, cutting her off from her team. Thankfully, there had been a few light weapons laying around at Ostagar for if such a situation were to arise. And Mahariel was steadily growing to enjoy the feel of the worn wrappings of the ash warrior's axe in her hand, the weight very satisfying as she sunk it into the rogue's back.

 

The darkspawn fell with a sickening slosh on the marshy floor, now nothing but a pulpy mass. She withdrew her small glass vial and popped off the cork stopper, careful not to drop it and lose it to the wetlands. This was a task she was wholly not looking forward to. The former hunter had slain many beasts of the forest and was by no means squeamish. However, since that fateful day in the cave Mahariel wanted nothing more than to stay as far from the darkspawn as feasibly possible, even given her current circumstances. She had no idea she'd be wrist deep in darkspawn belly to fill a vial for gods knows what.

 

The stench was unbelievable. Mahariel had brought an arm up to her nose to stave off her own gag reflex. She faltered for a moment, choking back a dry heave, remembering Ser Jory's protest upon bandaging the wounded patrolman. She didn't was to be seen a coward as well, even if Alistair would deny the accusations as he had with the other human.

 

She'd no longer heard the sounds of steel against steel. She wondered, her comrades were either victorious and ready to move on, or dead. Seeing as she was not riddled with arrows she bet on the former. Pressing on an especially juicy part of exposed darkspawn gut, Mahariel topped off the remainder of the vial and rose to rejoin the group.

 

"I think I see the ruin just up ahead," Daveth said as he scouted a few paces ahead of the group. "Just up this hill. Do you see it?" He turned his head around to look back at them. He wasn't aware of the small force of darkspawn accumulating in front of the very structure they approached.

 

It didn't take long until a terrifyingly fast hail of arrows fell down upon them, causing all four to jump, duck, run, do anything to escape into what meager cover was made available to them. Daveth had rolled quickly behind an overgrown and uprooted tree, ducking his head out periodically to take a few shots with his shortbow. Mahariel had no idea where Jory was because she was too busy trying to cover Alistair, who instead of retreating to safety, had raised his shield and charged forward with incredible force.

 

Mahariel could feel the burn in her fingertips as she drew and shot each arrow with as much speed as she was able, trying desperately to break the small hurlock line of defense. They were falling, but not as quickly as they needed to be. Daveth had replaced his bow in favor of his blades and finally found a path around the hill to flank, which took the pressure off of her and Alistair immeasurably.

 

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Jory flailing frantically. He was crouched down by his right leg as two genlock stragglers closed in, he was caught in one of the metal leg hold traps that were covering the Wilds.

 

" _Fenedhis!_ " Mahariel cursed and ran as fast as she could muster, trying to first reach the approaching genlocks or the bumbling knight.

 

"There's a pin on the underside of the trap you have to push to get it to let go," she closed in on Jory and the darkspawn, stopping only to drop down to grab a handful of sludgy mud.

 

"I've no experience with these things, truly." He tried his best to not sound embarrassed. She would not shame him for it, if she was being honest. Quickly she threw the dripping mud balls at the genlocks, hoping to add some time to help the man free. They stopped for a moment in panic, the stout creatures flailing their arms as their entire world turned to stinging darkness.

 

Mahariel crouched down to Ser Jory's trapped leg to quickly asses the damage and free the man. He didn't look too hurt as his heavy armor would have protected him from the flimsy teeth. She deftly ran her hand underneath the trap and -

 

'Aha!" The leg was freed, as were the encroaching darkspawn. Jory leapt into action, extending his shield over Mahariel's exposed back as the genlocks attempted to attack the still crouching elf.

 

"Shall we press on?" The now unencumbered knight and the hunter attacker with ferocity and quickness, eager to return to the battle further up the hill. The last genlock hadn't even fallen to the ground before they had run off to rejoin their companions. They were surprised to see however, that most of the horde were slain, barring the most dangerous Hurlock Alpha.

 

The Alpha standing before them was larger than the rest of the darkspawn they'd encountered. Its armor was a pieced together collection of jutting spikes and other intimidating objects. It moaned and gestured to the group with its sword and shield in a gruesome fashion, obviously ready to engage in battle. The blood of the field covered and mingled with the muddy wetlands of the Wilds, rewarding each step with and extra sloshy splash.

 

The Alpha had courage, but it was outnumbered, and while terrifying, could not hold its own against the four. Daveth had started in with a quick sweep of his blades to the monster's back, grabbing its attention, while Jory brought his sword straight over the Alpha's head, connecting with a sickening crunch. Jory's attack left the Alpha in a state of confusion as he ceased all for of attack for a short while, standing there dazed. Mahariel took the time to give it a swift and powerful kick to the lower body, hoping to do some damage in such close quarters. Though still in its confused state, the attack didn't seem to do much as she braced herself for retaliation. It never came however, as the Alpha was brought to his knees after a shield met with the loud crunch of bones. Mahariel gave it another kick for good measure.

 

"I never want to see one of those again." Mahariel said breathlessly. They all knew the odds were extremely high they would encounter many more in the coming months, however they all shared the opinion, no matter how trivial. They had carved their way through the Korcari Wilds well enough, a trail of darkspawn bodies in their wake. While it was not a welcoming place, the four were exhausted after their endeavors. As wonderful as a quick rest sounded, they were mere steps away from their destination. They could wait a little while longer.

 

"There it is," Alistair spoke as they rounded a corner into a crumbling stone structure atop the hill. There in the very middle of the empty and decrepit stone floor was a rotted wooden chest. This did not bode well, Mahariel thought. If she had to guess, the contents were either ransacked or destroyed ages ago. She stepped up to the chest, only barely getting a peek inside, but that was all she needed. The contents were gone.

 

"They're not in here, Alistair."

 

" _That's not-_ "

 

"Well well," an unknown dark and somewhat sultry voice had appeared from the wooded area outside the ruin, bringing the three recruits and one junior warden to attention. "What do we have here."

 

The woman presented to the warriors was a strange sight, wearing a curious collection of fabric and leather tied off in a resemblance of clothing, mingled with revealing cuts and tears.

 

"I have watched you for some time," she walked with a bold step, as if she was taunting them to make a move against her, " Why are they here, where do they go." She spoke with such a tone that indicated ownership. Mahariel had known it well. Such possessiveness she had often used in her dealings with humans she'd found wandering too close to camp. It was a privilege she secretly relished in. Alistair stepped forward slightly in defense of what the odd woman might do.

 

"Careful," he warned. "She looks Chasind. There may be others nearby." He spoke with a bold seriousness. This woman did not put him at ease, it was quite clear. The implication that others may join her had put Ser Jory, Daveth, and herself on edge as well. After fighting their way through so many darkspawn, they were not so sure they had the energy to fight through unpredictable Chasind warriors.

 

"Aha. You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you!" The woman made a grand gesture with her arms to mimic the absurdity she saw in Alistair's words. Alistair glared coolly and readied his tongue for a response.

 

"Yes, swooping is bad." As she stared the blond down Mahariel heard the uncomfortable shifting of Jory and Daveth from behind her. They were getting restless.

 

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, _she is_! She'll turn us into toads," Daveth stammered uncharacteristically, " o-or throw us in a pot!"

 

" 'Witch of the Wilds'. Such idle fancies." The dark woman would laugh if she were in better company.

 

"You there," she gestured to Mahariel, "Women do not frighten like little boys. What may I call you?" The elf looked to her companions with a slightly nervous face, as if looking for reassurance, though there was none to be had.

 

"You can call me Mahariel," she answered firmly trying not to sound too shaken. She received a slightly warmer introduction than she, and most likely her companions, expected.

 

"And you may call me Morrigan." Mahariel could swear she heard Alistair mumble something under his breath - something about 'that being a very witchy sounding name.' Mahariel had no intention of encouraging any animosity between the two, however, she had first met Alistair 'sassing' a mage, as Duncan had put it. And Morrigan had much more boldness and fire than the man in Alistair's sights hours earlier. She resigned herself, hand grasping at her brow in frustration.

 

"Look, we were seeking the contents of that chest," she motioned to it as if Morrigan wasn't already aware, "The contents are property of the Grey Wardens."

 

Morrigan was well aware. She was so aware in fact, she knew exactly where the contents were. The woman merely smirked and crossed her arms. Alistair noticed her change in demeanor almost immediately.

 

"You stole them!' Alistair's voice rose as his coherence slowly started waning. "You stole them like some sneaky… witch-thief!" Morrigan stifled a laugh at riling the man so. She was beginning to take much joy in stringing him along. The twin behind him seemed to shrink in place, as if the words exchanged between the two were palpable and thick in the air with sickening weight.

 

"Please, tell us where they are." Mahariel hated being the voice of reason, she was not good at it. Fenarel had been more adept at keeping her and Tamlen in check, though he had his lapses in judgement of course.

 

"I do not have them for 'twas not I who removed them." Mahariel almost screamed. Morrigan was toying with them and clearly taking much enjoyment in it.

 

"Alright then, Morrigan," the woman's lips curved upward slightly at the sound of her name on the elf's lips," who did remove them?" Mahariel was finding it hard to envision sympathizing with this woman if the time were to arise.

 

"Twas my mother who took them," She said matter of factly.

 

"Your mother," Alistair said with rejuvenated boldness, "is this supposed to be a joke?"

 

" _My mother_ , yes." She seemed to strain the syllables harder, but whether they were for the man or just on her own principle, only she could know.

 

"Did you assume I spawned from a log?"

 

"Not far off actually," Alistair muttered, seemingly ignoring Jory and Daveth's bodily protests to quiet the man. Mahariel gave him a quick glare and turned her attention back to Morrigan, hoping she hadn't heard the man, or at least didn't care.

 

"I can take you to my mother if you wish," Morrigan spoke softer yet with no less confidence. They had no choice and she knew it.

 

"Follow me if you will, 'tis not far."

 

* * *

 

 

Morrigan had opted for silence during the journey to her mother's hut. Outwardly she was condescending,  judgmental, and rude to these strangers, these intruders. However, on the inside, Morrigan was excited to have the experience. Though she could never say it, she was intrigued accompanying people she did not have to hide from in the form of an animal, at least for now.

 

Her life was one of solitude, that was, apart from her mother. But never the less, she had known little about the world outside the dreary Korcari Wilds. Much of her education was from the cautionary tales her mother had told or the various tomes they had accumulated, or better still, her own adventures shifted into the form of a village dog or a bird to spy on nearby villagers. She and her mother had been known as “witches” yes, though few had dared cross them. Most Chasind folk knew to stay away out of tales they’d heard recited and twisted from mouth to ear and mouth again. Sometime they had succumbed to necessity and traded with a handful of discrete village folk. It just simply must be done, her mother would say. 

 

Much of the journey was done in silence, not quite comfortable, the warriors all wondering if this all had been a clever trick to lure them to their deaths. Morrigan seemed to realize this early on and enjoy the inkling of power her presence had over them, making the trip less of a headache as she was expecting. 

 

When they did speak, she learned small things, like how Ser Jory was playing at knight, and how Daveth was a bit of a disgusting, lecherous rogue but seemed to also have a dusting of misplaced honor. Perhaps their roles should have been reversed, she mused. The pale and hulking man would start on his wife and a place called “Highever” and just wouldn’t stop. Morrigan let out a noise of annoyance, tongue clicking against teeth. She’d hoped to the old gods that he’s heard her protest. Daveth would then elbow the man quite hard or say something biting in that high pitched and wily lilt. Morrigan couldn’t help but feel a small, yet momentary, inkling of pity for the charming rogue. He was just her mother’s type. 

 

Alistair was a fool and she would be glad to never see his ruddy face, nor hear his know-it-all voice ever again. She mused, perhaps Mother can turn him into a toad. The Wardens may not miss him so. 

 

And then her thoughts settled on the elf. She'd read about elves, heard stories from her mother, seen many and interacted with little to none. The markings on her face indicated to Morrigan that she was Dalish; a small irritation. The Dalish were no different than any other fool community that worship, blindly justifying their purpose because of some infallible figure in the sky. The dwarves and their Stone and the human Chantry were no different. Though she was not such a fool, maybe only a little. 

 

Morrigan wondered why Mahariel was traveling with these, in her opinion, utterly unremarkable human men. Her understanding was that the Dalish had suffered, and continued to suffer greatly, from human intervention and subjugation. She knew she was not misinformed. She had read a little about the Exalted March of the Dales, she heard crude slurs thrown around in the heat of intoxicated banter. But she also knew vaguely about the Grey Wardens, protectors who battle the Blight, who offer aide to factions, bolstering ranks and boosting spirits, and ultimately making the ultimate sacrifice only to fade into obscurity after each age. Though that was long ago, written for books of tales told to children. The Grey Wardens were forgotten, now nearly a distant memory like the old Chasind tales of legend. 

 

“Tis not much farther,” the woman spoke, voice calm though confident enough to shake any genlock. 

 

“The faster we retrieve our documents, the faster we can be rid of this..” Alistair motioned with a very apparent dose of sarcasm, though choosing his words carefully remembering that their guide was one of the wild’s inhabitants, “ _charming_  place.” He was obviously not looking forward to the return march through the Wilds back to the encampment at Ostagar, as were they all.

 

The Korcari Wilds were cold, wet, and unfriendly and nightfall was fast approaching. Mahariel took to counting all the steps that were extra splashy as Ser Jory tried not to let his teeth chatter too much, though it was a hard endeavor. He would approve of anywhere at the moment as long as it was out of the chilling wetness of he Wilds. Daveth was the one who looked petrified. He disapproved greatly of their choice to meet Morrigan’s mother. Morrigan herself was a self recognized witch, a sorceress, and unpredictable. He was certain they were being lured to their deaths, terrifying, bizarre, torturous deaths. Possibly toad related. 

 

“What can you tell us about your mother, Morrigan?” Mahariel asked, tired of looking up and down again at her now muddy leather boots. Morrigan thought a moment, running over the memories of the woman in her mind’s eye, what was safe to divulge to these Wardens and what did she want to share to simply amuse herself. Did she want to tell the story of how the a traveling merchant years back had tried to bring them to the attention of the Chantry for detainment and her mother had given him honey mead laced with potion and he woke the next day with no tongue. Or did she wish to tell the tales of the multiple Chasind men who she would prey on. She was a powerful woman indeed, though she believed these few knew already that she was not to be trifled with.

 

“She prefers her privacy,” she mustered, erring on the side of caution not to divulge too much in the end. The best case scenario of course was that they would receive their documents and be on their way, never to enter the Wilds and see the women again. 

 

Mahariel waited after Morrigan’s answer, unsatisfied, as if there were more to it. She looked back at Alistair trailing behind her slightly, his hands raised up in an exasperated shrug. Morrigan was going to be difficult, but it was no matter in the end. They weren’t staying long, she concluded. A few more bushels of scrub moved past and they had arrived at a small, ramshackle hut, surrounded by nothing but dirty mud puddles and deathroot bushels. The tiny home had a certain odd quaintness to it, certain being the key word as it was also falling apart in various spots. But it had a roof, and obviously a fireplace, as there was a steady flow of smoke puffing out of a small, yet surprisingly sturdy, chimney on top. 

 

“Wait here if you will.” Morrigan had gone to enter the home, leaving the group on their own in the Wilds. Though there were no darkspawn to be seen, nor any other wild beast for that matter, Daveth was still only slightly holding on to his composure. They had entered the witches’ territory now and who knows what strange, unknown creature could appear. 

 

The door to the hut opened sharply, wood against wood, and an old woman with Morrigan’s distinctly dark features and pale skin had walked straight out, bickering sharply with Morrigan. If Mahariel didn’t know any better, she would have said her hair was actually not hair at all and instead just a very grey broom head. _Alistair would like that one,_ the elf thought. She would have to save that for when she was feeling extra conversational perhaps. The old woman also had quite deep set eyes, causing her to look as if she was wearing the same eye coloring as her daughter. 

 

“I see them girl!” Mahariel could suspect Morrigan’s mother was lacking in maternal instinct, but she honestly didn’t know if the young woman cared much at all. The older woman had turned away from her daughter, who had looked a strange combination of annoyed, frustrated, and resigned to her fate. One would not have guessed that the old woman could hold so much power over someone as seemingly cold and merciless as the young Morrigan, but nevertheless, the four had held their tongues- until Alistair used his again.

 

“You’ve come for your papers, yes?” 

 

“Those documents are Grey Warden property and I demand you return them-" The words spilled out of his mouth so fast almost as if he was afraid they wouldn’t come out otherwise. He was absolutely not prepared for her response. 

 

“I have protected your treaties, boy, so you may take them,” he was met with stern calmness, “Go. take these so that you may prove to your King that the Blight is a much bigger threat than they realize.” The Blight affected all, her tone held no falsehoods.

 

“Y-you. Oh, _Maker_ ,” Alistair, mortified, put his face in his hands, “Thank you for keeping them safe. They are very important in a time such as this.” She gave as hearty chuckle as a woman of her stature could narrowing her eyes after she regained herself, “Yes. I quite imagine they are indeed.” Feeling as if they had overstayed their welcome, Morrigan had approached her mother, standing by her side, hands on her hips.

 

“Well, now that’s sorted,” she spoke in such nonchalance. Though she had enjoyed the journey more than she would admit, Morrigan  cared little for the welfare of the four strangers and preferred they be on their way. “You will be leaving.”

 

“Don’t be silly, girl! These are your guests.” Mahariel had to admit, the old woman’s facade of compassion used to manipulate her daughter was ruthlessly effective.

 

“Of course,” she glared bitterly, entirely unenthused in the task delegated to her. “Let me show you the way out of the Wilds.”

 

* * *

 

 

Night had fallen when the group had returned to Ostagar. Alistair was not as pleased as he would have been had they skipped the run in with the witches, however, the acquisition of the Grey Warden treaties in the wilds would please Duncan immeasurably and no doubt aid the Wardens in the coming battles. He could tell that his charges were did not seem to fare as well as he upon returning. They were wet and cold, though luckily not soaked through to the bone and requiring any immediate healing. They were bruised from the barrage of darkspawn and tired as veteran mabari hounds. Alistair felt a pang of sympathy for the coming night as Duncan would call them to the far end of camp to begin their transition to full fledged Grey Wardens.

 

He knew the ritual well enough, having been inducted into the order only six months earlier. Though not how to prepare it. That was a closely guarded secret held only by the Senior Wardens like Duncan and the older men at his Joining. Hopefully he would get to learn it one day, hopefully he would live long enough, that is.

 

He spotted Mahariel milling about outside the Ash Warrior camp. She had just exited the kennels and was now talking to the kennel master. _Curious,_ Alistair thought, _wouldn’t have pegged her for a dog lover._ He laughed to himself and made a mental note as to where the rest of his charges had tiredly wondered off to. The night was not over.

 

Thankfully, Ser Jory and Daveth had only wandered over to an uncrowded fire pit, warming themselves and engaging in small talk, no doubt thankful to be out of the Wilds. Alistair saw Duncan out of the corner of his eye and turned to meet him near a stone pillar, he wanted a chance to talk before the Joining began.

 

“You were successful, I take it?” Duncan's question held a different meaning. Alistair was so eager to please the man that was lIke a father. He would not fail Duncan. 

 

“The blood was quite easy to attain, which is not terribly surprising,” he paused as he recalled the day’s events, the darkspawn slaying being significantly less of an ordeal than the run in with the apostates. “They are a strong bunch. I am hopeful.”

 

“There is something else.” Duncan raised his eyebrow in response, surprised at the sudden seriousness in the boy’s tone. “We encountered two women, very odd. They had the treaties. I think they were apostates.” Duncan let out a weary sigh. Alistair was not a templar, and even though he had been raised in the Chantry to become one, he had never taken vows, never hunted mages, never used lyrium. And yet, it was hard to sway him when it came to situations such as these. 

 

“Alistair,” he raised his hand in a motion of calm protest, “you are not a Templar.” He readied himself for a response, stopping himself when Duncan again waved him off. 

 

“It is not your duty to interfere in their matters, you know this.” It was shameful, Alistair thought. He wished he didn’t have such biases, yet the Chantry’s education was always just so. How much would he have cared then if Morrigan had been slightly nicer upon their first meeting, he wondered. Shaking the foolish thought from his head, he nodded briskly as a sign to change the subject. Duncan obliged, bringing his  hand up to the boy’s arm in a firm pat of reassurance. 

 

“Shall we gather the recruits?” Alistair nodded as they walked towards the bonfire. 

 

 

* * *

  

 

They gathered in the large, empty atrium at the back of camp. Most of the factions were asleep, only the guards at each entrance stayed vigilant, though Duncan’s recruits had enough privacy. There would be no prying eyes, especially from the other Wardens. The three had waited in the company of Alistair as Duncan readied the ritual. 

 

“Why can’t we just have this Joining over with? Why is it so secretive,” Ser Jory said. Wardens had only spoke very cryptically about the ritual, and the details were kept very close to the chest.It didn’t inspire much confidence in the young recruits.

 

“Duncan had said it’s dangerous,” Daveth responded plainly, “we might die.” Jory had reacted at the mere suggestion despite the threat of death being present and quite obvious throughout their time in camp and in the Wilds. 

 

“I can’t. I-I mean, it wouldn’t be such a thing. I have a wife and child. How can they dare to ask so much?” Jory spoke incredulously. Daveth seemed to bristle at the statement, at the man who seemed to have everything. 

 

“Would you be here if they’d told you the price? We’re here because the Blight impacts us all. It may reach your pretty wife and child in Highever. What will you do then, Ser Knight?” Mahariel had to admit, as much as she didn’t want to, Daveth had a point. Who would stand to fight against the Blight if there were no Wardens, the Blight that would no doubt reach her clan. She saw all the hate and resentment for her tainted blood begin to cool as Daveth spoke. She knew not why he was there to serve with them. Alistair had made it sound as if he was a man of ill repute from Denerim, she would not doubt it. But he was likely the bravest of them all. She had a mad thought that almost sent an unwanted heat shoot straight up to her cheeks. She envisioned him as a knight clad in shimmering armor, resembling the human king she’d met earlier making young shemlen girls swoon and blush.

 

_Gods, what am I thinking-_

 

“I just-” the knight admitted, exhausted, “I have never met an obstacle I could not engage with my blade.” And she was dragged back to reality, feeling a small kinship with the man. She was always eager to jump into the fray of battle, Tamlen as well. Fenarel had tried to implore more practical, reasonable methods for solving problems especially when it came to engaging with humans near camp. He told her it was sad, to only solve life’s difficulties with force. Now she might agree.  

 

“Do you mind stop talking now, I’m anxious enough as it is,” she interjected, hoping it would shut them up so they could just get on with it. It seemed to be impeccable timing, as Duncan had approached them with a large silver chalice. 

 

“I see we are all here,” He eyed everyone giving them a nod, “we shall begin. As is our duty to fight off the darkspawn and their taint, we as Grey Wardens must also learn to master that which gives them power.” He turned towards Alistair, chalice in hand. “So we, in turn, must drink of their tainted blood.” Whatever they had thought the Joining would be, it was definitely not this. It was a shocking thing to hear, to say the least. It felt like the final step in severing her from her past life. She felt cold and clammy, as if all the blood had drained from her body. He motioned to Alistair to say some words, some tradition in the ritual, a solemn vow.

 

All Mahariel could do was look at her compatriots, the bile in her stomach becoming hot and rising like magma. She had never been so anxious. The nerves on the tips of her fingers and her palms stood on end, and she could swear time was slowing around her. She could only look at Jory’s terrified face, now drenched with a cold sweat, and Daveth’s unnaturally rigid posture. 

 

“Daveth, step forward.” She could hardly believe it was real, that this was really happening. But the man did indeed step forward to grasp the chalice, as Duncan had provided. When he cupped his hands around the silver vessel in both hands and bowed his head to take the first drink, Mahariel leaned in slightly, as if she herself was performing the ritual. In a matter of seconds, Daveth had swallowed.

 

It was so fast, and he was turned away from the fellow recruits. Mahariel didn’t know if it was good or bad that he was not visible to them. Once the blood had descended past his tongue, he was deemed unworthy. He suddenly was choking, grasping and clawing at his throat. If he were alive for more than a few moments, then his nails would have ripped and dragged across his neck, leaving raw red marks and damaged skin. Perhaps it was merciful that it was only mere seconds of pain instead of a desperate action of trying to stave off the inevitable. 

 

Mahariel tried her best to not look away, he deserved the honor of remembrance, but she found herself shamefully shying away out of fear and other unknowable reasons. Daveth could have been a Warden. From her short time knowing him, she surmised he had more courage and honor and cleverness than he let on. It scared her and she wanted to look away. She wanted Fenarel and Tamlen and Ashalle. She wanted her simple, uninterrupted life. 

 

“I am sorry, Daveth.” 

 

She was unprepared for Ser Jory’s protest, the large man backing away slowly. 

 

“You ask too much,” he shook his head as he continued backing away. “I-I have a family.” Duncan’s eyes remained firm, unchanging. Mahariel could see Alistair, struggling the same way she was, struggling with the shame of looking at the ground. Duncan moved ever closer as Jory was backed into a wall, blade drawn. Stupid, she thought. Duncan had drawn a small, curved dagger, an elven made Dar’Misu, ready to counter the scared and towering knight. He had made his decision, and Duncan had to oblige. 

 

“ _There is no glory in this!_ ”  

 

Within seconds the dagger was deep in the knight’s side. He was dead in an instant.

 

“I am sorry.” Duncan closed his eyes as he took on the weight of the man and laid him down on the stone floor. He turned solemnly towards the elf with the procured cup, making slow, even steps. When she heard her name her heart leapt up into her throat. She didn’t have any other choice than to take the chalice, even with her terrified shaking she was somehow careful enough not to drop it. She looked up at Duncan with an indescribable look, terror and confusion and absolute trust. He nodded to her lightly, face unchanging as she closed her eyes and drank deeply. 

 

_Hot. She was so, so hot. Her nerves were on fire and she was surrounded by creatures, darkspawn. She knew she was dreaming and yet she was so scared. They would consume her, and she would burn. She felt a searing pain sting into her head, some gruesome mockery of a song. It was getting louder and louder and so fast, she couldn’t help but be overtaken._

 

She woke with a jolt and a sound she would later insist she did not make, greeted once more to Duncan’s stern gaze. Though this time Alistair’s dirty blond hair and warm brown eyes, filled with what may have been concern, or perhaps relief, shared the space. It somehow made her feel different than the other times she had awoken to the serious man’s prodding. She was too new of a Warden to be able to cite any form of kinship, and yet she felt an odd familiarity she could not place. As strangely comforting as it was, it still unnerved her, these strangers welcoming her and helping her to her unsteady feet. 

 

“How do you feel?” Duncan tested. Mahariel brought a shaky hand up to her head. She was alive, not daring to look at the spot she’d seen her recent companions fall just minutes ago, or had it been hours? 

 

“That pain was so _intense_ ,” she winced, not wishing to relive it ever again, the throbbing in her skull seeming to fade.

 

“Did you have dreams,” Alistair had asked, Mahariel nodding softly in response. She didn’t want to recall them so suddenly. 

 

“I had terrible dreams after my Joining.” Alistair added as if trying to reassure her. “It get’s better.” He offered a half-hearted smile before Duncan could recall her attention once more.

 

“Now that you have passed your Joining, preparations for the coming battle are of the utmost priority. Alistair,” He turned to the man, “I will speak with you later, for there is a meeting with King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain I must attend.” He turned to the elf who had seemingly begun to regain most of her composure, “Mahariel, you were asked to be in attendance.”

 

“W-what,” She suddenly regained a small amount of energy to respond in protest, “for what reason would I be called on? Surely Alistair-“ 

 

Duncan merely raised his hand, as he had become so known for in her mind, silencing her instantly. “It is by King Cailan’s personal request,” he sounded just as surprised, but also unwavering. She would not question him further, giving in with a weak nod.

 

As Duncan walked off in the direction of the battlements, Alistair turned to the elf, something obviously on his mind.

 

“Before I go,” he held something out for her, and in her daze she almost could not recognize it for what it was; a shining silver chain with a simple glass pendant hanging from it. “it’s something we do to commemorate those of us who didn’t make it.” She took a moment to take it from his outstretched hand, afraid it was some sort of trick perhaps. He could sense her skepticism as a the corners of his mouth turned upward.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to trick you,” he then fingered the collar underneath his armor with his free hand for a moment, showing off an identical looking necklace, “Also a great fashion accessory.” Mahariel swiftly took the necklace, face reddening in embarrassment at her own trepidation. 

 

“Thanks.” She said meekly, looking in any direction but the man in front of her, deciding instead to make a mad dash after Duncan.

* * *

 

 

There was fire and screaming and blood, and for some reason Mahariel couldn't stop thinking about Alistair's parting words to Duncan before all the chaos began. Maker watch over us all. It made no sense as to why she kept replaying it in her head as soldier's steel clashed in front of her, as bodies, human and darkspawn, lay strewn about in varying states of mangled gore.

 

Alistair and herself had set off for the Tower of Ishal to light the beacon for the Teyrn and his men. They would not join the King and his men in the battle, to the young Warden's disappointment. Though theirs was a duty of utmost importance. That wasn't to say they didn't have their own share of action. The tower itself had apparently been overrun with darkspawn, sparing only a handful of soldiers and mages to aide them.

 

"Maker, how did this happen?" Alistair questioned a panicked soldier who had just burst through the tower door, a small inkling of fear starting to show through his tone as well.

 

"T-tunnels, ser," he gasped, trying to regain his composure, "running underground." Mahariel turned to take in the surroundings. It was all so overwhelming, especially with a small horde of darkspawn closing in on the group. Alistair gave a strong pat to the soldier's shoulder, hoping to reassure him as Mahariel readied her aim on an enclosing genlock. They would make it through this yet. She unclenched her jaw as the arrow was let loose and hit the genlock straight in it's gaping maw.

 

Alistair set his sights on a mage on the other side of the dug in trenches. He was flinging spells left and right, trying to keep a small collection of darkspawn at bay. He knew the mage wouldn't make it unless he received aid, though he didn't want to leave the weary soldier on his own. He quickly looked back at his fellow warden, locking eyes with her momentarily. She understood with a quick nod of her head and an even quicker draw of another arrow.

 

Alistair charged ahead, thankfully through an already cleared path, until his shield connected forcefully with the back of one of the genlock warriors attacking the mage. The warden brandished his sword,  slashing and thrusting into the snarling darkspawn and taking much of the pressure off of the mage. Now, working in tandem,  the rest of the horde had been disposed of, and the mage was grateful for the assistance.

 

"Come on,  we're not done yet." Alistair waived the mage over to follow him back to his companions and take the tower. 

 

Mahariel remembered the sweat on her brow from the fire pits and exertion, and the burn in her abdomen from climbing up stairwell after stairwell. She remembered marble floors pooled with blood and bodies she ran by too fast to recognize. She remembered a giant beast, snapping and snarling, and grabbing the soldier up by his waist and shaking him until he moved no longer. And she remembered the look on Alistair's face when the doors burst open and she felt hot, searing pain in her chest.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

"Ah, I see you finally wake," the voice was familiar, dark. Mahariel's head pounded furiously, and she felt a weight in her eyelids that was as if she had been asleep for years.

 

She was also cold and sore, her flesh bare save for a large bandage wrapping around her chest. It took her a moment to realize that she was in Morrigan and her Mother's home. How she got there, she had no idea.

 

"How did you-" she paused and rephrased herself, "Did you save me?"

 

" 'Twas my mother who rescued you and your friend from the tower. I merely dressed your wounds." She spoke nonchalantly. Mahariel seemed to only take a small bit of her words in.

 

"My friend?"

 

"The dimwitted one from before," she replied, slightly irritated.

 

"So Alistair lives as well," she didn't notice the small sigh of relief she had let out. "I don't even know what happened. We were in the tower lighting the beacon and then I was attacked. Is the battle over?"

 

"The man that was to meet you quit the field. Besides yourselves," she paused, wondering briefly whether it was more beneficial to her to be honest, "there were no survivors."

 

Mahariel stayed silent for a few moments and then acknowledged her words with a quick, solemn nod.

 

"May I ask, er-" she stammered, "how did we survive?"

 

Morrigan gave a small chuckle in response, "Mother turned into a giant bird and plucked the both of you from the tower, carrying one in each talon. Though I am still not sure as to why she would do such a thing."

 

Mahariel didn't know whether to believe that explanation or not, but she supposed she should just be grateful she was alive. She made a move to stand, wobbling a bit. Morrigan made no move to help other than to tell her where she may find her clothing.

 

In a small chest in front of the bed lay her belongings, though her Dalish armor had now suffered greatly, large chunks singed and torn. She would need something new to wear as soon as possible. She slipped into the battle worn armor nonetheless, bandages showing through certain parts, and headed for the door. She would need to find her companion, as well as thank Morrigan's mother.

 

She was greeted by the same drab and wet scenery as the days before, except this time she had seemingly walked right into a conversation.

 

" _See_ , your fellow Warden lives."

 

"By the Maker, I thought you were dead," Alistair spoke breathlessly. She didn't expect the relief she saw on his features.

 

"Still here," she waved unenthusiastically, not noticing how close she had come to standing near the man.

 

"Duncan is dead, and all the other wardens," he said in a strained voice, "and so is the King. Loghain betrayed us all."

 

"Alistair, I'm sorry," the sentiment was genuine. She could sense Duncan meant a great deal to him. She didn't really enjoy hearing the pained timber in each syllable.

 

"If not for Morrigan's mother-"

 

"Do not speak of me as if I am not present, boy." The retort was curt and serious, causing Alistair’s back to straighten immediately.

 

"I- I'm sorry, but what do we call you? You never gave us your name."

 

"Names are pretty, but useless. I am known to some Chasind folk as Flemeth, I suppose it'll do." She watched Alistair's eyes grow wide. Flemeth. Mahariel knew of her from her people's tales; Asha'bellanar, they called her. Whether she was the famed Witch of the Wilds or something much more mysterious was yet to be seen, though the name alone was enough to inspire fear and respect.

 

"Daveth was right," Alistair spoke breathlessly. "You're the Witch of the Wilds." Mahariel knew better than to pry, knew better than the fool before her. She had the intense feeling that one wrong word and she could be back on that tower somehow.

 

"Regardless, thank you for rescuing us and dressing our wounds," she added, hoping to pull Alistair out of his pathetic state of awe.

 

"No, for I should thank you, Grey Wardens. Who else will defend us in these trying times."

 

"That's a nice sentiment and all, but I think the Wardens are finished," Mahariel admitted, refusing to look at her companion as she spoke.

 

"Bah," the old woman snorted, "the Grey Wardens cannot be finished. There is work to be done. The Blight must be stopped. You are the only ones capable of such a thing."

 

Mahariel didn't feel much like a Warden, just like some elf who had wandered into a situation that went far over her head. She had half a mind to back out right there, tell Flemeth that the only real Warden was standing right next to her. But something odd tugged on her conscience keeping the words from leaving her mouth.

 

"Most, if not all of the Wardens in Ferelden fell in the battle. Not to mention, we have no king." Alistair whined and spoke under his breath, "if Arl Eamon knew of Loghain's treachery-"

 

"If Loghain is the master tactician people say, he has no doubt pinned his deeds on the Grey Wardens. They are all dead and there is no one around to protest," Mahariel suggested.

 

"Quite likely that's what he's done." Alistair rubbed his temple in frustration, "Besides, no one would doubt him. He's a hero, King Maric's right hand."

 

"So it's useless after all." The elven woman put her hands on her hips and stared at the marshy ground. How could things have turned so sour so fast. Flemeth stayed oddly quiet while the two young Wardens conversed. Mahariel could sense a tenseness, like the old woman was trying to lead them on to a path.

 

"Surely the Grey Wardens have some other means to call for allies," she spoke coyly, watching Alistair's eyes light up at Mahariel's next question.

 

"This Arl Eamon? Is he someone important," her voice became slightly more hopeful and vibrant, "Could he help us?"

 

"Maybe. He's King Cailan's uncle, and the Arl of Redcliffe. He raised me and he's well liked by the people. If anyone could question Loghain, it's him." Alistair spoke with confidence and renewed energy. Flemeth was relieved he finally found some sense it seemed.

 

"That sounds like a useful ally indeed," Flemeth encouraged, "but to battle the Blight you will need an army-"

 

"Of course! The Treaties we recovered for Duncan!" Mahariel almost leapt back as Alistair's voice boomed, startling her.

 

"They're written and signed documents calling for aide during a Blight from allies; dwarves, elves, mages. They are obligated to help us."

 

"If you know where to find them, I say it's our best bet, Alistair." She couldn't say the plan was perfect, in fact, she was quite worried it would lead her to an even earlier, more painful end. However, the energy and determination that resonated off the man beside her inspired her enough not to think about her own mortality.

 

"Before you go," the old woman paused with a crooked smile, "I have one favor to ask."

 

* * *

 

Morrigan was furious. Her plan for the evening was to watch with satisfaction as the Wardens left their humble hut, and then sit and enjoy the rabbit and barley stew she had cooked for her and mother. Never in her plans did it include being pawned off as a pet mage, only to likely die being outnumbered by darkspawn. But Flemeth had insisted. There was an urgency in her voice that needed no further explanation. The Blight effected all.

 

Despite what Alistair would say to the contrary, Morrigan was quite adept at navigation. They were lucky to run across a small Warden cache that hadn't been ransacked during the battle. It wasn't entirely discreet, but Alistair and Mahariel were in need desperately of new armor, her own rough leather armor literally falling apart.

 

The clothing was sleek, ornate, traditional blue Grey Warden attire, not at all to her tastes. Though it was a light and durable scout mail that hugged her curves and would keep her warm and generally unharmed. It lacked the traditional comfort and sentiment of her Dalish clothing, but it would serve her well.

 

Alistair was lucky enough to find a full set of heavy armor, as he was the one getting knocked around most of the time. It was matching in theme, though with more coverage and buckles. He wouldn't need help getting in and out of it like heavier sets of armor, but it was still quite a substantial set. Alistair worried that they might attract attention. He worried they would be hauled off for execution the minute they stepped foot in Denerim. Mahariel told him he gave people too much credit.

 

Morrigan had mentioned upon their leaving the hut of a village nearby; Lothering, she had called it. It would be a day's journey. It would have to be, as there were lingering darkspawn from the battle at Ostagar they would no doubt cross, and it was far more dangerous at night.

 

Alistair knew of Lothering, not well, but growing up in the fishing village of Redcliffe meant you must know of the other villages nearby for trading purposes. Lothering was 'quaint,' he'd said. Well, he'd heard that anyway. It had its Chantry, like any good Andrastean village did, of course. It had a respectable tavern, where respectable village folk would convene. And it had farmholds, being a village that produced wheats and grains. That was the extent of his knowledge, and he'd made sure to supply such information during Morrigan's navigation.

 

Mahariel couldn't tell if he was jealous of the attention it got the apostate, or whether he genuinely thought the elf cared about the human settlement. She also couldn't decide if it was amusing or annoying. Morrigan was not afraid to attest to the latter, vocaly. The elf readied herself for another round of insults flung at eachother.

 

"Tis hard to believe what an utter fool you are," Morrigan snapped. "How you became a Grey Warden is lost on me."

 

"And I should care about your opinion, _why_?" He responded with flat sarcasm.

 

"I see now that they just let anyone in then. I am utterly shocked they aren't still around today." Mahariel winced at the jab. If Morrigan had insulted her like that she likely would have thrown herself into a rage. She waited for the man's response, knowing not how he would respond.

 

" _Oh ha ha,_ very clever," he responded dryly, "Perhaps they do at that. Oh wait, no. They don't accept heartless witches."

 

"Oh, what a relief." Mahariel swore she could feel Morrigan rolling her eyes in her own skull.

 

"Will you two stop for a single moment," she held her arm out in protest. "I think there's something up the trail a bit." With a few final jabs at each other, the group fell silent as they rounded a wooded corner. They had safely left the Korcari Wilds, yet were not certain how devoid of darkspawn or other beasts the area was. It seemed tame enough; a road laid deep with wagon wheel and oxen hoof markings, likely one of the various well-worn trade routes where the Brecillian Passage meets up wits the Imperial Highway.

 

"Traders, maybe," Alistair suggested hopefully as Morrigan turned to glare daggers at the man.

 

"During a Blight? Who would be stupid enough to travel out here, besides yourself?" She seemed to take a special pleasure in each insult she threw at the man.

 

"Hey, I was only throwing it out there-"

 

" _Creators_ help me, will you both shut up! You are worse than Daveth and Jory with your bickering, Falon'din guide their spirits." Mahariel hadn't remembered raising her voice with such anger in quite a while, she almost startled herself. She was not used to leadership, or being any sort of authoritative figure.

The elf was simply thrown into the role mere days ago and could only rely on her emotions and instinct. And right now her emotions were telling her to tie Morrigan and Alistair to a large boulder and leave them to sink to the bottom of Lake Calenhad. They took a few more steps forward in silence. Alistair refused to admit he was pouting for being scolded like a child, which Morrigan quietly reveled in.

 

"Oh look, it's just more darkspawn," Alistair said in a dry monotone that implied they had seen far too many to be terribly threatened. Mahariel perked up immediately, wanting desperately to take out some aggression.

 

Before they could reach the small horde however, a small brown beast came bounding up through the broken fence of the trail. It ran straight into the fray of battle and was the first to draw darkspawn blood, clawing deeply into the leading Hurlock Alpha's lightly plated breast.

 

They disposed of the enemies rather quickly, and Alistair seemed to forget the spat with Morrigan almost entirely when his gaze rested on the gore spattered hound.

 

"What's a Mabari doing out here on its own," they rounded up on the dog, Morrigan keeping her distance and grimacing as if she could smell him from a mile away. Mahariel crouched down and presented him with her hand for inspection.

 

"This looks like the hound I helped at Ostagar," he gave her a friendly lick, covering her outstretched hand with thick saliva, "how did he know I was here?"

 

"Mabari are clever warhounds. He's probably imprinted on you." The hound lolled his head to the side and wagged his stump of a tail. She took it as an invitation to pat his head and scratch behind his ears until his back leg began to thump.

 

"So we are enlisting mangy, flea-bitten animals now too," Morrigan snorted bitterly as Alistair dropped down to pamper the dog as well.

 

"He's not mangy," he cooed.

 

"And this is from the woman who lives amongst wild dogs?" Mahariel laughed sharply, "We're keeping him."

 

* * *

 

 

"Ho there, travellers!"

 

Mahariel and her companions had reached the outskirts of Lothering, stopping at the entry bridge as a sparse baricade made of stacked wooden crates surrounded by a band of armed men.

 

The men had jumped to attention at the sight of the approaching group, nearly waiving them down. Alistair muttered quickly to Mahariel before the men could speak.

 

"Highwaymen, no doubt." Mahariel noticed the blades on the man she assumed as the leader's back. There were only a few of them and she believed of it came down to a fight, they could no doubt take the bunch.

 

"There's a toll on this road," the man in front spoke in a tone that bellied the ill intent of its implication. "Ten sovereigns to pass." The large, dimwitted thug behind him chuckled a bit as he removed the figer from his nose.

 

"That's a bit steep of a price don't you think," Mahariel questioned as Morrigan tutted behind her.

 

"It is," the leader began. "But it's for the upkeep and safety of the Imperial Highway. You want to be safe don't you?"

 

"They are trying to swindle us. I say we teach these fools a lesson," Morrigan had no qualms with speaking so bluntly.

 

"Aren't you a bold bunch," the elf responded as she crossed her arms. "Tell me this," she took hold of her axe loosely in her hand, grabbing the man's attention immediately. "do we look like we need your protection?"

 

The bandit lazily raised an arm in response. "Ah, I can see you are no simple travellers." And with a snap of his fingers, his small band readied themselves to descend upon Mahariel.

 

"We get to ransack your corpse then," the large, slow one bellowed with a laugh. Morrigan and Alistair did not seem to protest much to the scuffle, even though Mahariel had provoked them. They no doubt would have attacked even if they had the kind of coin the men were demanding. Mahariel relished every crack and crunch as she struck the bandits furiously with her axe and dagger. In such close quarters there was no place for a longbow. Besides, she was beginning to grow quite attached to the blades she brandished.

 

"Give them no mercy, Warden," Morrigan cried when the leader rose his arms in surrender, falling to his knees.

 

"Alright, alright," he huffed in exertion. One of his  
compatriots lay bleeding and unconscious on the stone bridge ground. "We shouldn't have tried to fool you. We're very sorry." He seemed sincere enough, she thought. Well, or just desperate to save his own hide. Though the elf couldn't fully blame him for that, as times were tough for many. Much to Morrigan's displeasure, she did no more harm to the men, only instructing them to leave immediately.

 

"Leave all that you've stolen and get lost," she ordered.

 

"Of course-" he had tried to dole out more platitudes of thanks but was only to be cut off by a snarl from the hound and an icy glare from the witch. As they shambled away, the travellers stepped passed the barricade to paw through what was left.

 

Behind one of the crates and partially hidden under a shabby looking blanket was the body of a man. It only caught Mahariel's eye due to the bit of armor that had caught the light, fooling her into thinking it was something of value. The body was that of a knight, it seemed, his armor silver and ornate. He had been dead for days, as the moment the blanket was removed, the area was filled with the horrid smell of rot and death.

 

Morrigan covered her mouth and nose with the back of her hand discreetly as Alistair moved to get a closer look at the man. He recognized the armor as that of a knight of Redcliffe. What he was doing out in Lothering however, he hadn't the slightest.

 

"Well," the man spoke with a weary sigh, "this is Lothering. Pretty as a painting, isn't it?" They stood overlooking a settlement of drab tents and small cottages, villagers and reffugees milling about anxiously. The sun shining down on the village lit the land in a strangely ethereal glow. If not for the threat of the Blight, it would be downright lovely. Morrigan, however, took no time in dispelling their slight semblance of peace.

 

"Finished with your moping, take it," Morrigan sneered, sparing no effort in directing all her energy into making Alistair feel miserable.

 

"What are you on about now?"

 

"Your grief has been absolutely insufferable since leaving the Wilds," she chided.

 

"Oh I'm sorry, have you never lost someone close to you? What if your mother had died?" Mahariel could wager a guess that Morrigan was less inclined to care if harm had come to the old woman, but she wasn't about to bail Alistair out just yet. Morrigan was like a gnat, annoying and ever-present but ultimately harmless.

 

"Then it would be a cause for laughter," she replied lightly. For all her badgering, the knight seemed to handle himself quite well, deflecting each mocking cry with confidence. But Mahariel was not so patient, for she knew that if she were in his shoes, she could not handle the witch with such composure. Perhaps accepting her on their journey had been a mistake. Though defying Flemeth might have been an even graver one.

 

"Noted, very creepy." He turned his attention to Mahariel, causing her to turn her back to the village in response. "I've had a thought-"

 

"This should be good."

 

"Well at least I'm trying to contribute, instead of whinging about every blade of grass we pass by that offends you-"

 

"Twas not my choice to be here, remember that, fool!" After the words left her mouth Alistair took a moment to look to Mahariel, face knit in shock at the sudden explosion of emotion from the two. When she offered nothing but an anxious look at both parties Alistair took that as a sign.

 

"No one is stopping you from getting lost. Run along if you want!" Morrigan knew not what to say.  
She was presented with freedom, but she was livid in the manner it was given. She didn't bother looking to the elf for support, she frankly didn't care. If this was her invitation to leave, she was taking it, no matter how scared she was inside at the prospect.

 

"And leave this task in your clumsy hands? Certainly not," she stubbornly replied as Alistair's patience seemed to disipate.

 

"Better in my clumsy hands than an amoral apostate. You probably don't even care about ending the Blight. It's probably just someone else's problem to you, isn't it?"

 

All of Mahariel's energy from earlier had vanished, and instead of usual confidence stood anxiety and panic. She didn't know what to do as the two clashing companions escalated in both volume and intention. Alistair flung passionate accusations while Morrigan parried with an icy bitterness that made Mahariel wince. Within seconds she was standing alone on the bridge. It had happened so fast, she could barely remember how it all began and what had occured, like trying to recall a dream after only just waking.

 

Morrigan had protested enough, ejecting herself from the situation and walking off in the direction of the cottages, while Alistair huffed and stormed off, muttering something about needing to clear his head. Mahariel frowned thinking she should have intervened, should have stopped them before things had gotten so bad, like before. Her headache had come back and her stomach had become tied in knots. She was entering Lothering, _alone._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some OCS (sort of). This is where I am starting to branch off into AU territory, as I am giving more back story and plot to some of the random encounters/etc.

Hallbrook was not known as a social person. He had spent many of his recent years drinking alone in The Knawed Noble at night. Not many people in Denerim knew what the man did for a living. He was dark and intimidating in stature, and weathered. He had small knicks and scars on his hands and face, battleworn. Though there were rumors of course. Some assumed he was simply an old soldier, come to drink away his old memories. But others whispered in corners about hearing word from friends of friends of a man with his face and stature engaging in business that paid in the kind of coin simple folk only dreamed.

 

This particular night the tavern was nearly empty. Much of the city was holed up in the chantry. King Cailan was just announced dead, killed and betrayed by the Grey Wardens at Ostagar, and the vigil would be held all night until sun up. Hallbrook was thankful the tavern was still open, as he needed a stiff drink. He had been a soldier once. He'd served with the man recently declared Regent back during the Orlesian occupation. But organized military was not for him. He needed flexibility, freedom. He supposed he could be called a deserter if his services were not needed so.

 

And so while the city folk crowded in the chantry with candles and wreaths of lily and prophet's laurel, singing hymns until dawn, the former Sargeant Phineas Hallbrook answered a call to the royal palace to fulfill a task of the utmost importance and discretion.

 

Instead of facing a public hanging for desertion, the mercenary was now to investigate lands to the south, Redcliffe Village to Lothering for any evidence of surviving Grey Wardens. He was told - bring them back to the Teyrn without drawing any attention or end them to where they stood. It was a simple enough task, he thought. He'd take his usual bunch, Tavish, McKinnon, and Lockley. Tavish had a loud mouth and Lockely was a bit too exciteable, and they all had a bit of a hard time holding their drink, but they would get the job done. He would be gathering the men and leaving the city within the hour, and Lothering was a long way.

 

"Ahh, Lothering is a shithole," Lockely, a wiry bald man slurred. The men had been riding out from Denerim on horseback for only a few hours before the caving into temptation and broke out a small bottle of wine to pass around.

 

"Have you been there, Lock?" The young and portly Tavish replied, taking a swig from the bottle.

 

"Well, no," he admitted, causing McKinnon to sneer at him. "But I've heard all that's out there is farm holds. So it must smell like shit all the time."

 

"And swampland," McKinnon added lazily as they trotted along.

 

"Aye, that too," motioning for the bottle to be returned to his hands like it was a small child.

 

"What're the odds'f us finding Wardens outthere anyway? What if they're dead?" Tavish questioned again.

 

"Then we send word to the Teyrn in a week that we slaughtered the remaining Wardens. Even in a shithole, I'm sure we'll find something to occupy our time." Hallbrook spole lazily as the men leered at eachother.

 

* * *

 

 

The men's arrival in the village could have been seen as an ill omen. It could have been seen as King Regent Loghain's fingers itching in anticipation for rebellion, sending forces to spy and occupy small holdings. It could have been seen as simple renegades coming to cause even more chaos and havoc to a town already facing the oncoming storm of the Blighted south. But that was not so.

 

Hallbrook and his band had trudged through the back roads of Ferelden in little more than twelve days time. Lockley had protested heavily when McKinnon suggest they pack up camp early every morning and leave at dawn. Though in truth it was more order than suggestion, and though the small man was known to prefer obstinace when it came to McKinnon, he knew it best not to pull on the reigns too hard. Hallbrook's retribution was something to be feared.

 

The night their tired horses set foot in the outermost field of grain, the weary men had seemingly stumbled into a rather perplexing and gruesome scene. The golden field they trod into was stained and sodden with life and limb. They dismounted immediately, slightly obscured by the assumed owner's northernmost edge of their home.

 

Dismounting from their horses, they heard a small commotion from the interior of the wooden building. There was light coming from the small windows and the door left ajar. Also disturbing was the trail of blood and bodies leading into the threshold, as well as an indistinct and guttural growling noise followed by a loud and wet thump ever so often.

 

Hallbrook, drawing his long sword as quietly as he could muster, motioned for his men to take up positions to move on his mark. Lockley readied his bow and McKinnon drew his daggers, moving into the shadows and preparing themselves to face whatever was wreaking havoc on the farm.

 

Their eyes widened at the sight that greeted them. Inside the bloodied doorway and engrossed in bludgeoning the already quite dead and deformed body on the wooden floor was what could only be described as a giant. He seemed entirely focused in his rage, not hearing the men encroaching behind him, even when Lockley drew his bow, the giant did not seem to make any movement that he recognized then behind him. Hallbrook made the motion for McKinnon to follow close, hoping to sneak up and surprise the beast of a man. He nodded and they moved forward, continuing with stealth and guile, careful to avoid large puddles of blood.

 

Within seconds Hallbrook spoke, blade at the giant's back, while McKinnon had his around the man's throat.

 

"Yield, beast. We have you outnumbered and overpowered." Hallbrook spoke, causing the other to grumble.

 

" _Ebasit kata_." The giant's voice was deep and hoarse and not at all what Hallbrook had expected. He'd heard in his mind an animalistic moan, possibly more growling and some foaming.

 

"What's a Qunari doing all this way down south?" McKinnon was the one to speak in a near whisper. He was nearly an enigma himself among the band, much to Lockley's frustration. But he knew Qunlat when he heard it.

 

"didn't know your spoke Qunlat" Lockley piped up. He didnt need a reply. "Quite a mess you've made here." There was a slight sadistic timber underlying the former Sargeant's voice. The room was coated in blood as if it were simply paint covering the walls. And the Qunari kneeled passed the doorway, knees coated in what had been the farmer's entrails.

 

"Tavish, hand me the rope from my saddlebag and then run into the village and bring the guard. Tonight we will be sleeping in warm beds."

 

* * *

 

 

The Qunari had been tied and marched through the village, all the way to the chantry, where there was a small group of sisters and templars awaiting. He had surrendered willingly, still favoring silence. Though his captors would poke and prod and ridicule and spit, he remained quiet. In the dark of the night, there were little to witness the parade, and it was just as well. They didn't need more panic that night.

 

Standing before them was a small, tight lipped woman with graying hair. She stood out from the other sisters in her ornate robes, denoting her as the Revered Mother.

 

"The Templars suggest you be put to death for your actions, murdering that entire family. Do you have anything to say for yourself," she spoke sternly, not entirely sure the Qunari was able to speak back, that he was no more than a wild beast. He stood bound before her, Templar guardsmen ready to strike were he to make any move of aggression.

 

He remained silent for some time, feeling no inclination to give these people an explanation. They had already judged him. And as much as he was seen as a beast by the humans of the village, he regarded them as the _qalaba or imekari._

 

"No," finally speaking. "I have killed in cold blood. If you have no desire to end me now then leave me to find my own atonement." The old woman was slightly taken aback at the length of words he had spoken. The thought had crossed her mind, maybe he is not so bestial in nature if he was speaking of penance. But she quickly banished the thought from her mind.

 

"Unlike your kind, I do not wish to perpetuate more bloodshed. I will not order an execution. However, this crime will not go unpunished." The Qunari was to be imprisoned, as he had suggested and the Mother had begrudgingly agreed to. There was a small and rusted iron cage on the edge of the village, rarely used but still functional. It would serve as his new refuge.

 

Come daybreak, he had settled into it rather nicely. Well, as nicely as one quite guilty party could. Contrary to his captors insistence, the Qunari was quite disciplined. He spent his first day in captivity in deep meditation, not at all bothered by the glare of the sun, nor the occasional gawking villager.

 

Hallbrook and his men had been treated quite well after that night. They had captured and subdued the murderer of one of Lothering's own, an entire family. This would have earned them free room and board at the tavern any other day. However, Blight or no, the tavern was full with weary travelers who had packed in like a barrel of nugs. They had been given one room, which Hallbrook took for himself. None of the men questioned it while they were in earshot. However, a family to the west of the ransacked farmhold had offered happily to house the men until they departed.

 

The Alder family was a small, humble, bunch, making their name in growing small patches of various grains and produce and raising even fewer livestock. Ricard, the head of the house, had tended to the field with their son, Samwell. Before he was sent to Ostagar, he had been teaching the young boy the various skills he would need to succeed as the head of his own house one day. Sarha, Ricard's wife, was slight in stature, but fiery in personality. Though her face could have been called plain, her bright red hair was anything but; a testament to her obstinance

 

With Ricard gone, Sarha was left to cook for a full home. Samwell was not ready to admit that the outsiders frightened him at first. But eventually, McKinnon spied a carved wooden toy blade the boy wore on his hip and couched down next to the boy.

 

"You'll never catch any proper game with that," he spoke.

 

"Father says I'm not to have any real blades," the child whined with a small pout. "Could hurt me'self."

 

"Wise words," he nodded stoicly.

 

"Samwell, why don't you wash up. Supper is almost ready," Sahra spoke in a nearly sing-song manner. When she turned to stir the bubbling pot on the fire once more, some of the men's eyes lingered a bit too long. Lockley held in his lurid comments and in exchange kept an ever present gaze. McKinnon gave him a raised eyebrow, his own method of warning the man, as if Lockley would listen.

 

"So your husband is-"

 

"Dead," she nodded curtly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so rude." She chided herself. "He fell at Ostagar. I haven't told the boy," she tried to hold back the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. "The soldiers would be due to return in the coming weeks and I still haven't-" she could hold back no longer as tears poured from her eyes. Tavish fumbled with his breast pocket ando almost fell over himself trying to get to her, giving Sarha his small linen hankerchief. She nodded in thanks, stifling herself once more. If she were to cry, she would do it quietly. Samwell was all she had. Lockley gave the young man quick glare before she dried her eyes. /p>

 

"Such a tragedy, dear woman," Lockley offered. "Many a good man and woman were lost. You have my sympathies." McKinnon could tell the man was after something. Lockley was a snake, and he knew how to get what he wanted. The widower's eyes softened nevertheless as Tavish complimented the stew that was ready to be served.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qunlat translation
> 
> Ebasit kata = it is over  
> Qalaba =A type of cow that the Qunari breed known for its stupidity.  
> Imekari = child


	5. Chapter 5

Alistair had found himself in the comfort of the Lothering chantry. However, he was anything but comfortable. He was frustrated and still mourning the loss of the man he likened a father figure. He was hoping the place would calm him, that the low timber of the chant would ease both his sadness and his ire. Instead he just felt more alone.

 

There were templars he could talk to, of course. But even during his training to become one, he'd never really gotten on with them. There was also a knight standing alone in familiar looking armor. Upon closer inspection he recognized the knight as Ser Donall, one of the Knights of Redcliffe. He'd wondered if the man remembered him.

 

"Ser Donall, is that you?"

 

The man turned to greet the source of the voice.

 

"Aye?" His eyes great wide at the sight, "By the Maker, Alistair?" He embraced the young man.

 

"I thought you were dead, surely." The boy could only guess at the meaning, whether from the battle at Ostagar or after parting from the Arl's care at Redcliffe.

 

"Still alive, and quite fortunate at that. What brings you to Lothering?" He couldn't help but ask why the Knight was so far from the castle.

 

"Then you had not heard?" Ser Donall's brow knit as Alistair looked confused and anxious.

 

"Speak, man! What has happened," he nearly shouted, his worry now quite palpable.

 

"It's the Arl," Alistair's face fell immediately, as did Ser Donall's.

 

" _Is he-_ " he couldn't bring himself to finish the thought, choking on the words. He couldn't think about losing another father. He was grateful when Ser Donall finished it for him.

 

"No," he nodded, " And thank the Maker for it. He is ill, but he lives." Alistair let out a sigh of relief, though it didn't lift his spirits much. After a moment of pause, Ser Donall spoke again.

 

"You have heard of the Urn of Sacred Ashes, yes?"

 

"Who hasn't," Alistair responded, not actually asking for am answer. "But it's a myth, even a child knows that."

 

"Not to Lady Isolde." Now it made sense, Alistair thought.

 

"Ah. So she's sent the Knights out to chase a bedtime story then?" He tried not to sound as if he were Morrigan.

 

"If the situation weren't so grave I would view it with such levity as well." He seemed to take the jab well, not as if Alistair had insulted their quest.

 

"This is terrible news, about the Arl," Alistair spoke again, mulling it over once more. He hadn't expected this wrench in the plan. " I had meant to go to him, with my companions. We needed his aide, his guidance."

 

"Oh? What for, if you don't mind me asking," the older knight had asked with a curious lilt. It was harmless enough, and he was someone they could trust.

 

"Teyrn Loghain," Alistair waited. There was a moment of clarity that had passed over Ser Donall face. It seemed that the Knights of Redcliffe were not ones to blindly believe whatever the King Regent was feeding the rest of the nation. Alistair was relieved. "He left king Cailan and the Grey Wardens to die and now there is a Blight to defend against and a possible civil war."

 

"Yes, I see. Arl Eamon could face Loghain, were he well." The knight sighed in resignation. Alistair braced himself for what he had next to offer the man.

 

"My companions and I saw the body of another Redcliffe knight towards the entrance to the village. Did you come here with another?"

 

The older man's face fell into one of sudden dispair.

 

" _Oh_ , Henric." Alistair immediately regretted opening his mouth, as he could plainly see the man cared for this 'Ser Henric'.

 

"I am sorry. For what it's worth, we drove off the bandits that may have killed him." He knew it offered little comfort, yet it was better than nothing at all.

 

"Henric had been on the trail of a scholar from Denerim, 'Genetivi', his name was. Thank you for this." He spoke wearily as he excused himself. "I-I must return to Redcliffe."

 

Alistair couldn't help but feel guilty for coming in to the chantry and, in his eyes, unleashing chaos and despair. There was no doubt about it that Ser Donall was more distraught leaving than he was upon entering. He shouldered that blame, he thought as he found a place at an empty altar and knelt down.

 

* * *

 

 

"How dare you… _cheat_ these poor people! Haven't they suffered enough?"

 

"Lower your voice, lady. It's just business."

 

"You bought these goods from these villagers last week, and now you hike up the prices, unimaginably so. Where is your sense of shame!"

 

Morrigan hadn't yet decided what was worse, the wailing of the holier than thou chantry sister, or the dirt caked merchant, obviously conning the people for everything they had. She did enjoy the show, despite the shrillness of the woman's cries.

 

She hadn't fully realized her mistake until the woman called out to her for assistance. Morrigan had thought, surely, she must mean someone else. But no, she was pointing to Morrigan, gesturing to her for help.

 

"Please! You must aide me. This man is a swindler," the woman was near tears. But this did nothing to sway the witch.

 

"I am just trying to get by, like everyone else. What would you have me do, give away all my stock for free?" The woman pleaded with Morrigan that she do something, anything at all.

 

"Quiet, woman," Morrigan snapped. "The self-riteous turn my stomach." She knew that if they had approached as a group she would have to listen to Alistair and possibly Mahariel as well wear the merchant down in aide of the sister. She scowled as the thought danced across her mind.

 

"If you send this," he gestured to the sister, "harpy away, you will be rewarded." She saw no harm in it, and her stomach was growling. In a matter of seconds she stood in front of the other woman, blocking the merchant from her view.

 

"Go on now, there is nothing for you here," she waved hastily. But the sister wasn't leaving, only looking on in disbelief and frustration.

 

"I am not leaving-"

 

"This man is as doomed as you are. Why must you chastise him so? Are you so filled with spite that you would deny him his trade I these terrible times? And for what, a few silvers off some bauble."

 

The sister glared and spat a parting curse to Morrigan before she wandered off towards the chantry. Morrigan turned to the merchant, who in turn rewarded her with a small pouch of coin. The witch smiled smuggly to herself. Shaming the sister had built up her apetite. She was already doing better without those brutes, she thought, as she made her way to the tavern.

 

* * *

 

 

Being left to her own devices at the entrance to Lothering had been strange, to say the least. Not at all what she had expected. She had thought upon arriving in the first human village, she would be greeted with apprehensive and wary stares, but instead she wasn't greeted at all.

 

There were families grouped together near tents, some holding eachother, some children crying, and some simply resting or trying to take in as much silence as they could. There was one man, however, that regarded her with disdain from the moment she left the bridge. She thought immediately that he'd never seen an elf before, or maybe, he'd seen many and just didn't care for them. Though upon speaking to him, she found that some people live in their misfortune.

 

Alistair and Morrigan were gone. She saw the direction they had stormed off in, but they'd split in the center of the village. If she had to guess, Alistair would have gone to the chantry, or somewhere with village officials. Morrigan was another story. She'd hoped to run into her and convince her to come back.

 

Tentatively, she'd continued on through Lothering. It wasn't so bad, she'd thought. Nobody stared at her as they did at Ostagar. The villagers and refugees seemed quite preoccupied with their own panic to care about an unfamiliar Dalish wandering about. She'd come to the village's center when she heard the unmistakable wail of a young child. He was crying, half unintelligible things. Though she could make out a few words.

 

The boy was crying for his mother. He could be no more than seven or eight. But there he stood, bawling his eyes out on a small wooden bridge. Mahariel wasn't terribly adept with children. She'd played with the younger Dalish children, of course, but they knew how to mind themselves. Human children were different. They lacked discipline and needed to be watched constantly.

 

The elf sighed heavily and walked forward, readying herself to calm to child.

 

"What's wrong?"

"I-I don't know-" he sobbed, "My mum. She was right behind me." He looked back behind him and sniffled.

 

"Shh, shh. What's your name?" Her brow knit as she crouched down to his level and tried to calm the boy. He looked back to meet her gaze.

 

"S-sam..Samwell."

 

"And where do you and your mother live?"

 

"On a great, big farm over there," he pointed out passed the village to the north. To where he was pointing she noted a massive windmill surrounded by golden hills and farmland.

 

"She," he sniffled again, trying to regain composure. "She told me to run and that she'd be right behind me. But I didn't see anything." Mahariel reached out to put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

 

"Where is your father?"

 

"He hasn't come back from Ostagar yet. I need to find her so when he gets back-" Samwell began to sob once again, Mahariel truly feeling for the child. She knew the fate of his mother was likely quite grim. And his mother likely spared him the news of his father. She understood that, as it was the same decision her guardian had made for her own benefit. Though that was nearly twenty years ago.

 

"Come, let's find your mother."

 

"F-father says not to go off with strangers," he choked.

 

"Your father is a wise man." She nodded, leaning in close. "Can you keep a secret?" He nodded, drying his eyes with his dirty sleeve.

 

"I'm not just any stranger," she wispered as his interest grew. "I'm a Grey Warden."


	6. Chapter 6

Dane's Refuge was packed, almost overflowing with villagers, travellers, and merchants. It seemed to be the only place where one could seek shelter from the coming storm, besides the chantry. Morrigan steeled herself, simply wanting to buy herself a bit of food and perhaps some mulled wine, if there were any to be had.

 

Pouch out, she maneuvered passed the crowd taking up the tavern floor and made her way to the innkeep. He was portly, bearded, and obviously quite overwhelmed.

 

"We've no more rooms, if that be what yer askin'," he spoke wearily. Her eyes narrowed a bit at his presumptuous tone, but she help the pouch out regardless.

 

"I take it you have food and drink left, yes?" His eyes widened a bit, as he was true to his trade.

 

"Aye, miss. We're but a small farming village, not rich in much other than simple grains." Morrigan's face fell, she was starving, and as her appetite grew, so did her temper. The innkeeper must have noticed something because he picked up the conversation once more.

 

"I- I've a bit of lamb left," he looked around the tavern and lowered his voice to not much higher than a whisper. "In the back. Now don't go tellin' anyone. Times is tough, an' I don't have enough to feed everyone." He eyed the pouch of coins greedily.

 

"Tis a deal then," she handed him the pouch and waited for a young serving girl to bring her a small loaf of bread and a wooden skewer with a strip of meat run through. Turning back towards the crowded room, she struggled to find a suitable place to rest, somewhere devoid of the most people.

 

It was a near impossible task, but Morrigan had managed. There was a small table, unfit for more than two people that sat deserted towards the back corner and near the large fireplace. Once she'd seen the two men occupying the space vacate, she had swooped upon it like a bird of prey. The spot was hers, though there were no chairs to be seen.

 

 _Typical_ , she'd thought. Already the lands beyond the Wilds were serving to be an annoyance beyond measure. But she knew she couldn't go back, much as she might have wanted. Flemeth would be furious. Which begged the question; did she want to go back? She certainly didn't want to stay in Lothering, of all places. The freedom had been invigorating, and there were so many places open to her. If only all the inhabitants would be taken by the Blight, leaving only her and the world to explore.

 

Morrigan was shook out of her daydream when a young and in Morrigan's opinion, insufferably bright, woman came to join her at her table. She seemingly had come out of nowhere, as Morrigan had neither seen her standing about, nor heard her approach.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry to intrude," she started off politely, and unfamiliar lilt of an accent on the woman's tongue. "There doesn't seem to be much room, and I was hoping I could share your space?" Morrigan had half a mind to snarl and snap like a wolf mother guarding it's cub. Instead she simply narrowed her eyes, as was becoming her habit, and moved over.

 

"Who am I to stop you," she said, resentment and sarcasm lacing the underbelly of her words. The other woman simply smiled brightly in thanks.

 

"Thank you so much," she said as she took out her own meager loaf of bread to eat. Morrigan watched her as she ate, taking notice of the woman's attire. It was the same as that old bat of a chantry sister from before. She groaned to herself in irritation.

 

"I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of this chantry." She spoke, expecting Morrigan to introduce herself as well. Instead she simply stared at the woman. Leliana was fair of complexion with chopped red hair and open, child - like eyes. She also carried a blade on her back. That intreagued Morrigan the most.

 

"So you are a sister," she tutted. She was just getting to relax, she thought. When would she not be pestered so. Leliana giggled harmlessly. She may be young, but she was not stupid. She knew in Morrigan's tone that she did not like the implication.

 

"Oh, no. I did not take any oaths with the chantry, nor was I ordained or have any other duties. I simply stay at the chantry to affirm my love for the Maker." Morrigan relaxed a bit. While the concept was silly in her mind, she was at ease knowing Leliana was basically no more than a chantry house guest.

 

"I see,' she eyed her a little bit less suspiciously. "Then you can call me Morrigan."

 

"A pleasure," Leliana smiled again as Morrigan began to devour her meat skewer, thankful it would give her an excuse not to return the pleasentrey.

 

"So, I've never seen you in Lothering. What brings you here?"

 

"Tis a Blight going on. Does your chantry not know that?"

 

"Mm yes, of course," she looked pensive for a moment, as if she wanted to say something but was afraid of what the other woman might think.

 

"You know," Morrigan continued eating, giving up the chance to shut Leliana up. It was a necessary sacrifice. Her hunger was not yet sated.

 

"I had a vision." _Please stop talking._ "It was sent from the Maker, I know it." Morrigan couldn't help but choke a little on her bread.

 

"It heard there were Grey Wardens in Lothering," suddenly she was interested, swallowing her food. "I was sent to help them fight this Blight, I know it."

 

"By who exactly," Morrigan said with suspicion.

 

"By the Maker, of course!" She giggled proudly.

 

"Well," the witch dusted crumbs off her chest and readied herself to leave Leliana's presence. "Tis getting more miserable in here by the hour. Best be off." Leliana's brow raised as the woman began to walk.

 

"Wait!" She had hastily grabbed on to Morrigan's wrist.

 

"If you know what is good for you-" her eyes burned as if she could set the sister aflame with a single look.

 

"I know you're hiding something." Leliana's demeanor changed as well, into something completely different and dangerous. They stood there for a few moments until Morrigan gave in. She was better off not causing a scene in the most populated part of the village.

 

"Fine. What is it you want," she grumbled.

 

"You are not like the other refugees. I think," she glared. "I think you're one of them. Or at least, you know them." Morrigan sighed.

 

"I entered the village with two Wardens, yes. One is an insufferable dolt who must comment on everything, and the other is," she paused, "well, not terrible. And we have a dog now, apparently." The witch rolled her eyes. Leliana couldn't tell if the woman was serious, she felt bad for finding the situation humerous.

 

"Will you take me to them?" Leliana asked with excitement in her eyes. Morrigan had given up, rubbing her temples with her hands.

 

"How much worse could it be," she grimaced. " _Do not answer that_."

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm tellin' ya to calm down. Breathe. good. Now shut up." Near a small corner by the crackling fireplace of Dane's Refuge stood two men, one clearly in a state of panic, the other trying to calm him. Lockley was trying his best to stay inconspicuous while in the tavern full of people. He was quite aware anyone could be listening or watching them, especially with them regarded as small town heroes.

 

"Look," the bald man spoke. "We have a job to finish. Focus on the job. Boss don't need to know all the details. 'Kinnon and I agreed. He's up there right now discussin'," his words were spoken softly and metered to soothe the sobbing Tavish. He started to regain himself, relaxing his sternum and taking in deep breaths. Lockley remained vigilant, looking around with his beady eyes and keeping his voice to a low growl.

 

"What about the b-boy-" he was rewarded with a heavy jab to the stomach.

 

" _Not here_." Tavish nodded as Lockley dragged him along up the stairs and through the door to Hallbrook's room, making room for an interestingly clothed woman carrying a small skewer of lamb to take the spot.

 

* * *

 

 

"Not all is well in Lothering."

 

" _Truly_? With a Blight on its way," Morrigan responded. "I had no idea."

 

"I mean, there is something else going on here," her tone was serious. The Leliana who was airy and bright upon introducing herself had vanished and been replaced with a more focused and stern one. Morrigan laid her chin in her hand as she spoke.

 

"The men who occupied this table before, did you see them?" She asked. "What they looked like?"

 

"No. Why would I?" Leliana leaned in close before speaking again. She could tell Morrigan was growing more tired of her company, but she didn't care. "I believe they were sent here by the King Regent to capture and remaining Grey Wardens."

 

Morrigan was interested, though she could yet say she believed the young woman fully. If that were the case, then she needed to find Mahariel and Alistair and leave as soon as possible.

 

"Tis an interesting thought. Why do you believe so?

 

Leliana could not, or would not say. She had a feeling, perhaps she knew one too many faces in certain circles, faces to avoid, and it was best to trust her judgement on this.

 

"Trust me, the man who commands them, his name is Hallbrook. He is infamous is certain circles. Do you see," she tried to lead the witch a bit, that was the furthest she would go. Morrigan nodded in small understanding.

 

"I admit, I have little proof. But I have overheard them naught but an hour ago. They've done something awful, I just know it."

 

"I see. So you propose what, exactly? That we expose these miscreants and turn them in to the chantry," Morrigan proposed in jest.

 

"Don't be ridiculous. They wouldn't believe us." Leliana seemed to completely miss Morrigan's inflection.

 

"We must confront them. Where are the Wardens?"


	7. Chapter 7

Samwell's bright ginger head bobbed slightly as he ran ahead, Dog barking and running along behind him. Mahariel thought she really aught to pick a name other than 'Dog.'

 

"-Beast' wouldn't do. Maybe something Elven," she mumbled to herself as she walked briskly, keeping an eye on the boy as they passed over the bridge and in the direction the boy mentioned was the location of his home.

 

She suddenly found herself almost tripping over the boy as he had come to a complete stop.

 

_"Shok ebasit hissra._ _Meraad astaarit_ **_,_ ** _meraad_ _itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun."_

****

Samwell looked in awe at the small cage in front of him. The figure inside seemed to be reciting some form of chant the elf didn't recognize, but she also didn't recognize the features denoting his species either.

 

His complexion was almost entirely grey, and his facial structure was sharp and bold. He had an extremely pronounced forehead, with a kind of pseudo horn crested at the top, and long white braids pulled back into a ponytail.

 

He ceased his prayer to look at the boy and the woman with his cold stare. The man was also extremely intimidating in stature, as he loomed over the two.

 

"Go stand over there Samwell, and take Doggy," she spoke sickeningly sweet as she motioned over to a fence far enough that he couldn't see the prisoner. Hopefully he wouldn't be able to hear him either.

 

She approached tentatively, though it seemed he had already set his sights on her.

 

"I have no interest in entertaining you, elf," he said with exasperation. She felt a small twinge of guilt for assuming the words coming out of his mouth would be less eloquently put.

 

"What happened," she asked with a tilt of her head. "Why are you in there?" He sighed heavily.

 

"Does it matter?"

 

"I don't know," the elf shrugged. "Perhaps I could be of some help to you."

 

"If you must know, I am seeking my atonement," he closed his eyes and sunk to the bottom of the cage to rest and try to sit comfortably. "Now begone. Leave me in peace."

 

"As you wish. I'll just be on my way then, and you will fall prey to the Blight when it rolls through here," she shrugged with a little more emphasis that she was usually comfortable with, obviously trying to grab his attention. "You'll die just like everybody else in this village."

 

He grumbled for a moment, struggling with his pride. Another heavy sigh. She began to walk away-

 

"-Wait." She halted, moving back to meet his gaze.

 

"Are you perhaps a Grey Warden?" She found his sudden interest fascinating, as well as himself in general. She knew not who or what he was, or even why he was in that cage to begin with.

 

"I may be one," she offered coyly. He groaned in reaction to her vague response. After a bit of pestering he introduced himself as 'Sten of the Beresaad,' a _Qunari_. She'd never met a Qunari before and was a bit taken aback when she'd learned he was one. The Hahren had told tales of the Qunari far to the north; strong and capable warriors with unmatched skill and thirst for battle.

 

"Why are you in there? What did you do?" He sighed wearily.

 

"I killed a family of this village, slaughtered them. Even the children." Initially she may have thought he'd been put in the cage because of reasons more related to not being human than actually committing a crime.

 

Mahariel tried not to stumble over her response, "I see."

 

"You see that I am deserving of this cage, and much more, by these land's laws."

 

"I see that I am in need of aid against the Blight, and will do whatever needs to be done to get it," she said with as much might as she could muster. She wasn't going to let a single _shemlin_ cage stop her from getting what she needed. "Who do I need to talk to in order to get you out of there?"

 

"They call her the Revered Mother, one of the Chantry hens. She'll no doubt have a key. And Grey Warden-"

 

She looked back to the caged man. "It may not mean much. You may fail and I may be taken by darkspawn or hunger tomorrow, but thank you." She gave him a cheeky grin that he didn't know what to do with, so he just stood there slightly more awkwardly than he had been before.

 

She excused herself, insisting she'd be back. He didn't hold much hope, though he held onto the thought secretly, clung to it. He would not meet his end in Lothering.

 

Mahariel left the caged Qunari, rounding the corner and heading up towards the fence that she'd sent Samwell and the hound to wait. Instead of two small familiar bodies waiting for her return, there was only one. The dog bound up towards her in excitement, thankfully not knocking her down. She was only gone a total of ten minutes. But the boy was nowhere to be found.

 

"How is it you can't watch a kid for ten minutes," she scolded as he whined. Mahariel looked around frantically. There were few people out and about she could ask for help. They seemed preoccupied or downright unhappy.

 

She notioned that she would have seen him if he'd run out of the village, as Sten's cage was facing the exit. The boy would have had to pass her, leaving the entire Village for her to search for Samwell.

 

"Alright _Ara Dharlin_ , he couldnt have gotten far."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Samwell had done as he was told, but couldn't bear to sit idly by any longer. He'd seen his elf friend talking to the giant. What they spoke of, he didn't have the slightest, until he'd over heard one of the villagers speaking with an old armed guard.

 

"-brute didn't leave a soul alive. Farmhold's caked in their guts."

 

 _"Dear Maker_ , and in our own village, to boot. A tragedy."

 

His eyes had widened, hot and stinging. The boy felt dizzy. We're they talking about his family? His mother perhaps? Tears burned down his cheeks as his mind entertained such thoughts.

 

He couldn't rationalize otherwise. He now had a distinct memory of the giant from before, perhaps lurking about the fields, waiting for the moment to attack him and his mother.

 

He was sure now, that monster hurt his mother, and would have hurt him. The boy took off for the tavern, the hound not bothered by his sudden disappearance. The men who had been staying with his family, brave men, they would save his mother.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Alistair wasn't quite sure what he was being asked to do. He'd made small contact with some of the village Templars, bonding loosely over his own Templar training, however this started to make him slightly uncomfortable. He was a Templar in battle and skill, not in ideology.

 

He was taken aback that word had spread so fast within the Chantry. A small, dark haired sister had approached him, face weary and worn with a sad exasperation. The feeling was odd, he'd thought, having people come to him for help. He almost felt as if he was back at Ostagar. There was a strange calmness in the corner of the Chantry he'd chosen to occupy.

 

"Thank the Maker for you, Ser Templar," she began. "The others don't wish to pursue this but I believe if you offer me aid, they may come to their senses."

 

"And what is the problem, exactly?" He couldn't say he was very interested in running their errands and such, but he would do what he could to help regardless.

 

"There is an apostate mage running about town," Alistair's heart lept into his throat knowing right away she had meant Morrigan. "I had an altercation with her ealier today. She may even be a blood mage." The sister said in a hushed whisper, though not bothering to hide her disgust.

 

 _"A-ah ha_ , a blood mage in Lothering. Are you quite sure-" the man responded, hoping to calm her and possibly diffuse the situation.

 

" _Yes, I'm sure!_  I'm quite sure in fact. The rest of the Templars don't seem to believe me, think there is no way an apostate could hide in a village so small."

 

"If it is as serious as you say, dear woman," he began, trying to quell the now ranting sister, "I suppose it's worth a look." Perhaps he could convince the sister that he would take care of it and quietly search for Morrigan on his own before the situation spun out of hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The child's eyes revealed the Dane's Refuge to be a forest of towering villagers, chatting, drinking, and crying away their anxieties. It was extremely overwhelming and confusing to Samwell.

 

He'd been to the establishment before, with his father a few times. But this was too much. Everything looked unfamiliar and new, and he couldn't see a single person's face, only feel the heat of the fire and hear the hum of the crowd.

 

Thankfully, he did not go completely unnoticed as two women had approached him, one seeming exceedingly more approachable than the other. With a kind face and gentle voice, the woman in front knelt down to meet Samwell's tearful gaze.

 

"Are you lost, little one," Leliana's voice sweet as honey as she offered him comfort. Samwell felt a bit more at ease when he saw the Chantry robes and heard the kind woman's words. The woman behind her however made him nervous again and wary of opening up.

 

"M-my mother," he sniffled.

 

"What troubles you?" She brought a hand up to the boy's shoulder, hoping to calm him.

 

"-N-need to find them." Leliana looked to over her shoulder to Morrigan perplexed, who moved closer to the boy to join her new companion.

 

This time, when Leliana returned her attention to the boy, she found his gaze transfixed on something passed her and Morrigan, at the opposite side of the tavern and descending from the stairs.

 

He wriggled out of her grasp and ran towards the back, through a small crowd of tavern patrons. They could see the group he stopped in front of, panting and meek. Morrigan cared little until Leliana grabbed her by the shoulder and whispered sharply in her ear.

 

"Those are the men I mentioned."

 

"How does that boy fit in, I wonder?"

 

"I've seen him around the village before, father fell at Ostagar. He's not safe here by himself."

 

"Reckless as it may be, confronting them now might be our best chance. You said they were a threat, and the boy may need protection," the witch admitted. Wandering Lothering alone was not ideal for exercise, she had decided. She had been itching for a proper fight since the argument on the bridge. 

 

Leliana nodded in agreement as she readied herself mentally to approach the four men that now surrounded the boy.

 

"- I don't know you, urchin! Get off!" The bald, beady eyed man had struck Samwell hard enough that he was now curled into himself on the floor, the others looking unimpressed or uninterested.

 

Samwell still had enough in him to notice the wooden knife the had fallen from his grasp, laying nearby. It seemed that the men had also noticed it as the quiet McKinnon walked over without a word, snatched it up, and then grasped it firmly in two hands and -

 

It was done.

 

Samwell wished he was dead, more than anything. He didn't know the words. He didn't know how to phrase it or what it meant the way adults knew it. But he knew through the pain he felt in his chest, the heat rising up through his stomach and into his face, burning through his eyes. He knew that. He knew he had nothing.

 

"Are you so low that you must torment a small child," Leliana's voice rang out like a beacon in a storm. Their ears perked up and their eyes darted around the room to find the source, not expecting it to come from a woman in Chantry robes.

 

"Is this some kind of jest," Lockley spat, drawing a dagger and waving his arms, "is it my nameday?"

 

Tavish looked as if he wanted to stuff one of his hands in the man's mouth, while the others stood cold and silent.

 

" 'Tis no jest. Quite a web you've tangled yourself in, no? Did hunting Grey Wardens prove too tiresome?" Morrigan and Leliana stood side by side as the tavern slowly cleared for a brawl.

 

"W-who told you that! H-how did she know that" Tavish looked around the room nervously; first to the women, then over to Hallbrook. Clearly confirming the accusation, Hallbrook growled in displeasure.

 

"Yes. We came here for surviving Wardens, on the order of the King Regent. And on our way here we captured that Qunari beast," Hallbrook spoke, Tavish snickering nervously every now and then.

 

"They never showed. So I promised the boys some fun."

 

"The idiotic villagers bloody worshipped us, especially this brat's whore of a mother," Lockley chimed in as if he couldn't help himself."

 

"Right up until I slit her throat," laughed in a low cackle. Leliana's brow furrowed as she gripped her dagger tight, enraged by the cruelty of the thugs. Morrigan took note of Leliana's rage. This was a matter Leliana would not take lightly. This was something to consider greatly if the time ever came when they would be at odds.

 

"You men are animals, not even the Maker would offer you mercy-"

 

"- _Samwell_!"

 

The door had swung open as a worried and exasperated voice rang out followed by a friendly, but loud, bark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Qunlat is an excerpt from The Qunari Prayers for the Dead - “Struggle is an illusion. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun.”
> 
> Ara dharlin - pup, puppy, baby hound


	8. Chapter 8

"Well, well," the large man from the middle of the group stepped passed the crying Samwell and his two would-be defenders, making his way towards the doorway. "Boy's mother's no elf."

 

Mahariel walked a few paces, stride strong and gaze firm. McKinnon called out to Hallbrook after getting a look at the woman. "Reports mentioned one elven Warden at Ostagar, bos-."

 

"I know what the reports said," a red-faced Hallbrook snarled, "get over there and bring me her head!"

 

Hallbrook's men moved forward, expecting a quick and easy battle.

 

"So it's Wardens you shemlen want," she looked over to his men, visualizing her defeat were she to handle them all her own. "I see you've made a friend, Morrigan." The woman offered a pittiful pout in response, tilting her head slightly to the guest in chantry robes.

 

"Lady Warden," the woman spoke with fervor, "I will gladly offer my blade." Mahariel looked slightly surprised to be so readily aided, and with the promise of a warrior. She had no more time to gawk and ponder the human. The woman would aide her and Morrigan, moving from their places to join the elf. At the first sign of movement from the men, she quickly brandished her short axes for a deadly close quarters brawl.

 

Leliana drew her blades, standing firm and ready to attack while Morrigan conjured the energy to cast misdirection hexes.

 

Leliana moved fast, Mahariel noticed, agile too. She was far too skilled to be an ordinary Chantry sister. She easily maneuvered around each body with grace while doing terrible damage. The largest, Tavish, was slow and bumbling and easy to elude in matter of moments.

 

As she jabbed him hard in the back, Lockley took up his stance to counter her. As they squared off, Leliana's eyes filled with a fiery passion, Mahariel's axes clashed loudly with their leader. The battle did not last as long as it probably should have. Perhaps the seriousness of the men's crimes had lit a flame of urgency in the group causing the skirmish to move along swiftly.

 

The Sister's blades were wet with the blood of the disgusting Lockley as his body went limp, smirk on his greasy face. Eventually there was only one standing in the nearly empty tavern, Hallbrook. Looking around desperately he dared to open his mouth to plead for his life.

 

"Please," he stammered, "I'm no match for you." Mahariel spat a small bit of blood on the floor from where he had knocked her with the back of his sword moments earlier. He had landed a few good hits on her afterall.

 

"After what you've done," she spoke darkly. Morrigan looked at her with approval as Leliana went over to the boy on the floor.

 

It was over in a matter of seconds. The man crumpled to the floor, his lifeblood pooling under him. Leliana ushered Samwell away from the bodies. She had detested that it came down to such a thing, but these were vile men. She had no sympathy for filthy shemlen with no honor. When she had composed herself, Mahariel had spotted the boy and walked over to meet him.

 

"There you are," she knelt down. "Samwell, you shouldn't have run off." He looked away, ashamed, and she knew it. She would not let the feeling linger long. She was not so cruel.

 

"I would have done the same," her eyes were still hard when she gave his head a sympathetic ruffle. His shame managed to disipate for the time being.

 

"Those men," she said thoughtfully. "They stayed with us, slept in our home, played with me, ate my mum's cooking-" he paused.

 

"-I should apologize to that man in the cage. I thought-"

 

"We'll all go," Mahariel nodded, an underlying lilt of approval coating the words. The boy was strangely comforted by it, wiping his eyes once more.

 

"You mean the Qunari?" Leliana inquired suddenly, shaken to interest. Mahariel turned to catch the woman's gaze. She wondered why the warden had such an interest in him. 

 

"Yes," she nodded. "I'd like to see him free."

 

Leliana gave her an even more curious look. It did not go unnoticed by the elf or or her apostate companion. 

 

"What?" Mahariel responded as the woman gestured them over towards the tavern's exit.

 

'Come," she placed a hand on the door. "We must speak to the Revered Mother about this."

 

Not one step out of the threshold and Leliana almost nearly collided with an heavily out of breath knight. She stepped back in suprise, heel overstepping Mahariel's toes.

 

"Oh-"

 

She looked back at the elf who yelped in pain as Morrigan stepped up to berate the young man.

 

"Not to worry," her arms crossed as her eyes narrowed. "'Tis only our fool." Mahariel looked up to seek Alistair's presence, his gaze. He was indeed out of breath. Odd, she thought, how things had a way of coming back together lIke this. 

 

"Is your little temper tantrum over? Or do we perhaps need to seek a nurse maid for you?" Morrigan's words cut too deep, and now was not the time. Mahariel shot her a cold warning as Alistair bristled and readied a wry response.

 

"That's enough!" She walked over to her companion, he didn't seem as upset anymore. "Alistair," his gaze met hers as the redness in his cheeks abated, "we need to see the revered mother-"

 

"Uhm, well about that," he rubbed the back of his head. "We should probably not linger in Lothering for much longer." He tried to laugh, keeping the mood as light as possible, knowing not that the elf had fought off Loghain's spies. She agreed.

 

"Oh? And why is that," Leliana's saccharine voice added into the mix, startling the warden. Only then did he take a moment to realize his surroundings; the girl, the young boy, dog. 

 

"I'm sorry, and you are?"

 

"Leliana," she doled out a smile and nod, "I am a lay sister here at the Chantry. I've also pledged myself to the Maker's will to aide the Wardens on their-"

 

"Hold on," Morrigan interrupted curtly. "I promised to bring you to the wardens, nothing more." Leliana deflated slightly as Alistair and Mahariel looked at each other briefly, then back at the girl.

 

"Will you excuse us for a moment," she said as politelyas she could muster, then nodding for Morrigan to join her over by Alistair.

 

The three stood a good lengths away from the sister, though still looked absolutely ridiculous in the attempt to have a private conversation about the girl. She pretend not to notice, rolling back and forth on her toes, looking at the sky, and eventually trying to converse with the mabari.

 

"Morrigan, what did you promise her," Mahariel said, fingers aching to rub the sore spot on her jaw.

 

"Nothing. Belive me, I tried to get the insufferable twit to leave me alone but she is transfixed on aiding the wardens," the witch explained. "I promised nothing but to bring her to you and Alistair."

 

"She can't be that bad," Alistair added, looking back to see her patting the hound's head. "Besides, you're an absolute mess," he remarked on the blood caked armor that the women now sported and wondered what had transpired in the tavern. "She obviously was of some use."

 

"She's definitely skilled," Mahariel shrugged, "but I don't know if I can handle all that 'Maker's Will' spew." 

 

" 'Tis your descision," Morrigan reminded her with her with absolute apathy, but her addition truly surprised her. "However, you intend to free that imprisoned qunari. She may have her uses."

 

Once again Alistair looked out paseed the two women, but this time his gaze did not land on the sister. Instead he nervously looked out at the village and it's people. Mahariel could not guess to what end. 

 

"Is there something wrong?"

 

"Hm?" He looked back like hound who had just heard a twig snap in the wood. 

 

"One of the villagers, a chantry sister no less, was verbally accosted and harassed," he stalled for a moment before staring directly at Morrigan, "definitely not by a witch of the wilds."

 

Mahariel took a moment to think and then look at Morrigan with unbelieving eyes, who simply responded with a shrug and a baleful look.

 

"-and now the village folk may or may not be gathering to perform a witch hunt," he cautiously confessed.

 

"Gods damn it all," she cursed. "A witch hunt! A bloody witch hunt!" At that point Leliana had rejoined them, tired of feigning ignorance to their conversation and eager to help.

 

"This is not good. We must go to the chantry as soon as possible." Leliana bade them to follow their way to the holy place.

 

"I hope you two are happy," the elf chided with a seriousness that was becoming slightly more comfortable as they forged their way forward, desperately hoping there would be no pitchforks and templars awaiting at the chantry's doors.


End file.
